2.,  /,  /f 


tilt  ®b«olO(rt«t|  ft 

^ PRINCETON,  N.  J. 


Purchased  by  the  Hamill  Missionary  Fund. 


Division  ID  T.5  5 


EGYPT 


EGYPT 


(LA  MORT  DE  PHILiE) 


BY 


ifu^.ony  vn  o-f  Tulitin  V V:'^ 


TBAN8LATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  BY 

W.  P.  BAINES 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  A:  COMPANY 
191 


Copyright,  1909,  by 

DUFFIELD  & COMPANY 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAOB 


I.  A Winter  Midnight  before  the  Great  Sphinx 

II.  The  Passing  of  Cairo 

III.  The  Mosques  of  Cairo 

IV.  The  Hall  of  the  Mummies 

V.  A Centre  of  Islam 

VI.  In  the  Tombs  of  the  Apis 

VII.  The  Outskirts  of  Cairo 

Vlll.  Archaic  Christianity 

IX.  The  Race  of  Bronze 

X.  A Charming  Luncheon 

XI.  The  Downfall  of  the  Nile  .... 

XII.  In  the  Temple  of  the  Goddess  of  Love  and 
Joy 

XIII.  Modern  Luxor 

XIV.  A Twentieth-Century  Evening  at  Thebes  . 


1 

15 

29 

41 

59 

75 

91 

103 

117 

129 

147 

161 

175 

191 


V 


VI 


Contents 


CH1.PTER 

XV. 

XVI. 

xvn. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 


Thebes  by  Night 

Thebes  in  Sunlight 

An  Audience  of  Amenophis  II.  ... 
At  Thebes  in  the  Temple  op  the  Ogress 
A Town  Promptly  Embellished 
The  Passing  of  Phil^e 


PAOX 

205 

221 

235 

259 

275 

289 


A WINTER  MIDNIGHT  BEFORE 
THE  GREAT  SPHINX 


CHAPTER  I 


A WINTEE  MIDNIGHT  BEFORE  THE 
GREAT  SPHINX 

A NIGHT  wondrously  clear  and  of  a colour 
unknown  to  our  climate;  a place  of  dreamlike 
aspect,  fraught  with  mystery.  The  moon  of  a 
bright  silver,  which  dazzles  by  its  shining, 
illumines  a world  which  surely  is  no  longer 
ours;  for  it  resembles  in  nothing  what  may  be 
seen  in  other  lands.  A world  in  which  every- 
thing is  suffused  with  rosy  colour  beneath  the 
stars  of  midnight,  and  where  granite  symbols 
rise  up,  ghostlike  and  motionless. 

Is  that  a hill  of  sand  that  rises  yonder?  One 
can  scarcely  tell,  for  it  has  as  it  were  no  shape, 
no  outline;  rather  it  seems  like  a great  rosy 
cloud,  or  some  huge,  trembling  billow,  which 
once  perhaps  raised  itself  there,  forthwith  to 
become  motionless  for  ever.  . . . And  from 
out  this  kind  of  mummified  wave  a colossal 
human  effigy  emerges,  rose-coloured  too,  a name- 
less, elusive  rose;  emerges,  and  stares  with  fixed 
eyes  and  smiles.  It  is  so  huge  it  seems  unreal, 
as  if  it  were  a reflection  cast  by  some  mirror 
hidden  in  the  moon.  . . . And  behind  this  mon- 


3 


4 Egypt 

ster  face,  far  away  in  the  rear,  on  the  top  of 
those  undefined  and  gently  undulating  sand- 
hills, three  apocalyptic  signs  rise  up  against  the 
sky,  three  rose-coloured  triangles,  regular  as  the 
figures  of  geometry,  but  so  vast  in  the  distance 
that  they  inspire  you  with  fear.  They  seem  to 
be  luminous  of  themselves,  so  vividly  do  they 
stand  out  in  their  clear  rose  against  the  deep 
blue  of  the  star-spangled  vault.  And  this  ap- 
parent radiation  from  vdthin,  by  its  lack  of  like- 
lihood, makes  them  seem  more  awful. 

And  all  around  is  the  desert;  a corner  of  the 
mournful  kingdom  of  sand.  Nothing  else  is  to 
be  seen  anywhere  save  those  three  awful  things 
that  stand  there  upright  and  still — the  human 
likeness  magnified  beyond  all  measurement,  and 
the  three  geometric  mountains;  things  at  first 
sight  like  exhalations,  visionary  things,  with 
nevertheless  here  and  there,  and  most  of  all  in 
the  features  of  the  vast  mute  face,  subtleties  of 
shadow  which  show  that  it  at  least  exists,  rigid 
and  immovable,  fashioned  out  of  imperishable 
stone. 

Even  had  we  not  known,  we  must  soon  have 
guessed,  for  these  things  are  unique  in  the  world, 
and  pictures  of  every  age  have  made  the  know- 
ledge of  them  commonplace:  the  Sphinx  and 
the  Pyramids!  But  what  is  strange  is  that 
they  should  be  so  disquieting.  . . And  this  per- 


A Winter  Midnight  5 

vading  colour  of  rose,  whence  comes  it,  seeing 
that  usually  the  moon  tints  with  blue  the  things 
it  illumines?  One  would  not  expect  this  colour 
either,  which,  nevertheless,  is  that  of  all  the 
sands  and  all  the  granites  of  Egypt  and  Arabia. 
And  then  too,  the  eyes  of  the  statue,  how  often 
had  we  not  seen  them?  And  did  we  not  know 
that  they  were  capable  only  of  their  one  fixed 
stare?  Why  is  it  then  that  their  motionless 
regard  surprises  and  chills  us,  even  while  we  are 
obsessed  by  the  smile  of  the  sealed  lips  that 
seem  to  hold  back  the  answer  to  the  supreme 
enigma?  . . . 

It  is  cold,  but  cold  as  in  our  country  are  the 
fine  nights  of  January,  and  a wintry  mist  rises 
low  down  in  the  little  valleys  of  the  sand.  And 
that  again  we  were  not  expecting ; beyond 
question  the  latest  invaders  of  this  country,  by 
changing  the  course  of  the  old  Nile,  so  as  to 
water  the  earth  and  make  it  more  productive, 
have  brought  hither  the  humidity  of  their  own 
misty  isle.  And  this  strange  cold,  this  mist, 
light  as  it  still  is,  seem  to  presage  the  end  of 
ages,  give  an  added  remoteness  and  finality  to 
all  this  dead  past,  which  lies  here  beneath  us  in 
subterranean  labyrinths  haunted  by  a thousand 
mummies. 

And  the  mist,  which,  as  the  night  advances, 
thickens  in  the  valleys,  hesitates  to  mount  to 


6 Egypt 

the  great  daunting  face  of  the  Sphinx;  and 
covers  it  with  the  merest  and  most  transparent 
gauze;  and,  like  everything  else  here  to-night, 
this  gauze,  too,  is  rose-coloured.  And  mean- 
while the  Sphinx,  which  has  seen  the  unrolling 
of  all  the  history  of  the  world,  attends  impas- 
sively the  change  in  Egypt’s  climate,  plunged 
in  profound  and  mystic  contemplation  of  the 
moon,  its  friend  for  the  last  5000  years. 

Here  and  there  on  the  soft  pathway  of  the 
sandhills  are  pigmy  figures  of  men  that  move 
about  or  sit  squatting  as  if  on  the  watch;  and 
small  as  they  are,  low  down  in  the  hollows 
and  far  away,  this  wonderful  silver  moon  reveals 
even  their  slightest  gestures ; for  their  white  robes 
and  black  cloaks  stand  sharply  out  against  the 
monotonous  rose  of  the  desert.  At  times  they 
call  to  one  another  in  a harsh,  aspirate  tongue, 
and  then  go  off  at  a run,  noiselessly,  barefooted, 
with  burnous  flying,  like  moths  in  the  night. 
They  lie  in  wait  for  the  parties  of  tourists  who 
arrive  from  time  to  time.  For  the  great  symbols, 
during  the  hundreds  and  thousands  of  years 
that  have  elapsed  since  men  ceased  to  venerate 
them,  have  nevertheless  scarcely  ever  been  alone, 
especially  on  nights  with  a full  moon.  Men 
of  all  races,  of  all  times,  have  come  to  wander 
round  them,  vaguely  attracted  by  their  immen- 
sity and  mystery.  In  the  days  of  the  Romans 


A Winter  Midnight  7 

they  had  already  become  symbols  of  a lost  sig- 
nificance, legacies  of  a fabulous  antiquity,  but 
people  came  curiously  to  contemplate  them,  and 
tourists  in  toga  and  in  peplus  carved  their  names 
on  the  granite  of  their  bases  for  the  sake  of  re- 
membrance. 

The  tourists  who  have  come  to-night,  and  upon 
whom  have  pounced  the  black-cloaked  Bedouin 
guides,  wear  cap  and  ulster  or  furred  greatcoat; 
their  intrusion  here  seems  almost  an  offence; 
but,  alas,  such  visitors  become  more  numerous  in 
each  succeeding  year.  The  great  town  hard  by 
— which  sweats  gold  now  that  men  have  started 
to  buy  from  it  its  dignity  and  its  soul — is  become 
a place  of  rendezvous  and  holiday  for  the  idlers 
and  upstarts  of  the  whole  world.  The  modern 
spirit  encompasses  the  old  desert  of  the  Sphinx 
on  every  side.  It  is  true  that  up  to  the  present 
no  one  has  dared  to  profane  it  by  building  in 
the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  the  great  statue. 
Its  fixity  and  calm  disdain  still  hold  some  sway, 
perhaps.  But  little  more  than  a mile  away 
there  ends  a road  travelled  by  hackney  carriages 
and  tramway  cars,  and  noisy  with  the  delectable 
bootings  of  smart  motor  cars;  and  behind  the 
pyramid  of  Cheops  squats  a vast  hotel  to  which 
swarm  men  and  women  of  fashion,  the  latter 
absurdly  feathered,  like  Redskins  at  a scalp 
dance;  and  sick  people,  in  search  of  purer  air; 


8 Egypt 

and  consumptive  English  maidens;  and  ancient 
English  dames,  a little  the  worse  for  wear,  who 
bring  their  rheumatisms  for  the  treatment  of  the 
dry  winds. 

Passing  on  our  way  hither,  we  had  seen  this 
road  and  this  hotel  and  these  people  in  the  glare 
of  the  electric  lights,  and  from  an  orchestra  that 
was  playing  there  we  caught  the  trivial  air  of  a 
popular  refrain  of  the  music  halls;  but  when  in 
a dip  of  the  ground  all  this  had  disappeared, 
what  a sense  of  deliverance  possessed  us,  how 
far  off  this  turmoil  seemed!  As  soon  as  we 
commenced  to  tread  upon  the  sand  of  centuries, 
where  all  at  once  our  footsteps  made  no  sound,  ; 
nothing  seemed  to  have  existence,  save  only  the 
great  calm  and  the  religious  awe  of  this  world 
into  which  we  were  come,  of  this  world  with  its 
so  crushing  commentary  upon  our  own,  where 
all  seemed  silent,  undefined,  gigantic  and  suffused 
with  rose-colour. 

And  first  there  is  the  pyramid  of  Cheops, 
whose  immutable  base  we  had  to  skirt  on  our 
way  hither.  In  the  moonlight  we  could  see  the 
separate  blocks,  so  enormous,  so  regular,  so  even  j 
in  their  layers,  which  lie  one  above  the  other  | 
to  infinity,  getting  ever  smaller  and  smaller,  and 
mounting,  mounting  in  diminishing  perspective, 
until  at  last  high  up  they  form  the  apex  of 
this  giddy  triangle.  And  the  pyramid  seemed 


A Winter  Midnight  9 

to  be  illumined  by  some  sad  dawn  of  the  end  of 
the  world,  a dawn  which  made  ruddy  only  the 
sands  and  the  granites  of  earth,  and  left  the 
heavens,  pricked  with  their  myriad  stars,  more 
awful  in  their  darkness.  How  impossible  it  is 
for  us  to  conceive  the  mental  attitude  of  that 
king  who,  during  some  half-century,  spent  the 
lives  of  thousands  and  thousands  of  his  slaves 
in  the  construction  of  this  tomb,  in  the  fond 
and  foolish  hope  of  prolonging  to  infinity  the 
existence  of  his  mummy. 

The  pyramid  once  passed  there  was  still  a 
short  way  to  go  before  we  confronted  the  Sphinx, 
in  the  middle  of  what  our  contemporaries  have 
left  him  of  his  desert.  We  had  to  descend  the 
slope  of  that  sandhill  which  looked  like  a cloud, 
and  seemed  as  if  covered  with  felt,  in  order  to 
preserve  in  such  a place  a more  complete  silence. 
And  here  and  there  we  passed  a gaping  black 
hole — an  airhole,  as  it  seemed,  of  the  profound 
and  inextricable  kingdom  of  mummies,  very 
populous  still,  in  spite  of  the  zeal  of  the 
exhumers. 

As  we  descended  the  sandy  pathway  we  were 
not  slow  to  perceive  the  Sphinx  itself,  half  hill, 
half  couchant  beast,  turning  its  back  upon  us  in 
the  attitude  of  a gigantic  dog,  that  thought 
to  bay  the  moon;  its  head  stood  out  in  dark 
silhouette,  like  a screen  before  the  light  it  seemed 


lO 


Egypt 

to  be  regarding,  and  the  lappets  of  its  head- 
gear  showed  like  downhanging  ears.  And  then 
gradually,  as  we  walked  on,  we  saw  it  in  profile, 
shorn  of  its  nose — flat-nosed  like  a death’s  head 
— but  having  already  an  expression  even  when 
seen  afar  off  and  from  the  side;  already  disdainful 
with  thrust-out  chin  and  baffling,  mysterious 
smile.  And  when  at  length  we  arrived  before 
the  colossal  visage,  face  to  face  with  it — without 
however  encountering  its  gaze,  which  passed  high 
above  our  heads — there  came  over  us  at  once 
the  sentiment  of  all  the  secret  thought  which 
these  men  of  old  contrived  to  incorporate  and 
make  eternal  behind  this  mutilated  mask. 

But  in  full  daylight  their  great  Sphinx  is  no 
more.  It  has  ceased  as  it  were  to  exist.  It  is 
so  scarred  by  time,  and  by  the  hands  of  icono- 
clasts; so  dilapidated,  broken  and  diminished, 
that  it  is  as  inexpressive  as  the  crumbling 
mummies  found  in  the  sarcophagi,  which  no 
longer  even  ape  humanity.  But  after  the  man- 
ner of  all  phantoms  it  comes  to  life  again  at 
night,  beneath  the  enchantments  of  the  moon. 

For  the  men  of  its  time  whom  did  it  represent  ? 
King  Amenemhat?  The  Sun  God?  Who  can 
rightly  tell?  Of  all  hieroglyphic  images  it 
remains  the  one  least  understood.  The  un- 
fathomable thinkers  of  Egypt  symbolised  every- 
thing for  the  benefit  of  the  uninitiated  under  the 


A Winter  Midnight  ii 

form  of  awe-inspiring  figures  of  the  gods ; and  it 
may  be,  perhaps,  that,  after  having  meditated  so 
deeply  in  the  shadow  of  their  temples,  and  sought 
so  long  the  everlasting  wherefore  of  life  and 
death,  they  wished  simply  to  sum  up  in  the  smile 
of  these  closed  lips  the  vanity  of  the  most  pro- 
found of  our  human  speculations.  ...  It  is  said 
that  the  Sphinx  was  once  of  striking  beauty, 
when  harmonious  contour  and  colouring  ani- 
mated the  face,  and  it  was  enthroned  at  its  full 
height  on  a kind  of  esplanade  paved  with  long 
slabs  of  stone.  But  was  it  then  more  sovereign 
than  it  is  to-night  in  its  last  decrepitude? 
Almost  buried  beneath  the  sand  of  the  Libyan 
desert,  which  now  quite  hides  its  base,  it  rises  at 
this  hour  like  a phantom  which  nothing  solid 
sustains  in  the  air. 

• •••••• 

It  has  gone  midnight.  In  little  groups  the 
tourists  of  the  evening  have  disappeared ; to 
regain  perhaps  the  neighbouring  hotel,  where 
the  orchestra  doubtless  has  not  ceased  to  rage; 
or  may  be,  remounting  their  cars,  to  join,  in 
some  club  of  Cairo,  one  of  those  bridge  parties, 
in  which  the  really  superior  intellects  of  our  time 
delight;  some — the  stouthearted  ones — departed 
talking  loudly  and  with  cigar  in  mouth;  others, 
however,  daunted  in  spite  of  themselves,  lowered 
their  voices  as  people  instinctively  do  in  church. 


12 


Egypt 

And  the  Bedouin  guides,  who  a moment  ago 
seemed  to  flutter  about  the  giant  monument  like 
so  many  black  moths — they  too  have  gone, 
made  restless  by  the  cold  air,  which  erstwhile 
they  had  not  known.  The  show  for  to-night  is 
over,  and  everywhere  silence  reigns. 

The  rosy  tint  fades  on  the  Sphinx  and  the 
pyramids;  all  things  in  the  ghostly  scene  grow 
visibly  paler;  for  the  moon  as  it  rises  becomes 
more  silvery  in  the  increasing  chilliness  of  mid- 
night. The  winter  mist,  exhaled  from  the  arti- 
ficially watered  fields  below,  continues  to  rise, 
takes  heart  and  envelops  the  great  mute  face 
itself.  And  the  latter  persists  in  its  regard  of 
the  dead  moon,  preserving  still  the  old  disconcert- 
ing smile.  It  becomes  more  and  more  difficult 
to  believe  that  here  before  us  is  a real  colossus, 
so  surely  does  it  seem  nothing  other  than  a dilated 
reflection  of  a thing  which  exists  elsewhere,  in 
some  other  world.  And  behind  in  the  distance 
are  the  three  triangular  mountains.  Them,  too, 
the  fog  envelops,  till  they  also  cease  to  exist,  and 
become  pure  visions  of  the  Apocalypse. 

Now  it  is  that  little  by  little  an  intolerable 
sadness  is  expressed  in  those  large  eyes  with 
their  empty  sockets — for,  at  this  moment,  the 
ultimate  secret,  that  which  the  Sphinx  seems  to 
have  known  for  so  many  centuries,  but  to  have 
withheld  in  melancholy  irony,  is  this:  that  all 


A Winter  Midnight  13 

these  dead  men  and  women  who  sleep  in  the 
vast  necropolis  below  have  been  fooled,  and  the 
awakening  signal  has  not  sounded  for  a single 
one  of  them;  and  that  the  creation  of  mankind 
— mankind  that  thinks  and  suffers — has  had  no 
rational  explanation,  and  that  our  poor  aspira- 
tions are  vain,  but  so  vain  as  to  awaken  pity. 


THE  PASSING  OF  CAIRO 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  PASSING  OF  CAIRO 

Ragged^  threatening  clouds,  like  those  that  bring 
the  showers  of  our  early  spring,  hurry  across  a 
pale  evening  sky,  whose  mere  aspect  makes  you 
cold.  A wintry  wind,  raw  and  bitter,  blows 
without  ceasing,  and  brings  with  it  every  now 
and  then  some  furtive  spots  of  rain. 

A carriage  takes  me  towards  what  was  once 
the  residence  of  the  great  Mehemet  Ali:  by  a 
steep  incline  it  ascends  into  the  midst  of  rocks 
and  sand — and  already,  and  almost  in  a moment, 
we  seem  to  be  in  the  desert;  though  we  have 
scarcely  left  behind  the  last  houses  of  an  Arab 
quarter,  where  long-robed  folk,  who  looked  half- 
frozen,  were  muffled  up  to  the  eyes  to-day.  . . . 
Was  there  formerly  such  weather  as  this  in  this 
country  noted  for  its  unchanging  mildness? 

This  residence  of  the  great  sovereign  of 
Egypt,  the  citadel  and  the  mosque  which  he 
had  made  for  his  last  repose,  are  perched  like 
eagles’  nests  on  a spur  of  the  mountain  chain  of 
Arabia,  the  Mokattam,  which  stretches  out  like 
a promontory  towards  the  basin  of  the  Nile,  and 
brings  quite  close  to  Cairo,  so  as  almost  to  over- 

17 


i8  Egypt 

hang  it,  a little  of  the  desert  solitude.  And  so 
the  eye  can  see  from  far  off  and  from  all  sides 
the  mosque  of  Mehemet  Ali,  with  the  flattened 
domes  of  its  cupolas,  its  pointed  minarets,  its 
general  aspect  so  entirely  Turkish,  perched  high 
up,  with  a certain  unexpectedness,  above  the 
Arab  town  which  it  dominates.  The  prince 
who  sleeps  there  wished  that  it  should  resemble 
the  mosques  of  his  fatherland,  and  it  looks  as  if 
it  had  been  transported  bodily  from  Stamboul. 

A short  trot  brings  us  up  to  the  lower  gate 
of  the  old  fortress;  and,  by  a natural  effect,  as 
we  ascend,  aU  Caii’o,  which  is  near  there,  seems 
to  rise  with  us : not  yet  indeed  the  endless 
multitude  of  its  houses;  but  at  first  only  the 
thousands  of  its  minarets,  which  in  a few  seconds 
point  their  high  towers  into  the  mournful  sky, 
and  suggest  at  once  that  an  immense  town  is 
about  to  unfold  itself  under  our  eyes. 

Continuing  to  ascend — past  the  double  ram- 
part, the  double  or  triple  gates,  which  all  these 
old  fortresses  possess,  we  penetrate  at  length  into 
a large  fortified  courtyard,  the  crenellated  walls 
of  which  shut  out  our  further  view.  Soldiers 
are  on  guard  there — and  how  unexpected  are 
such  soldiers  in  this  holy  place  of  Egypt!  The 
red  uniforms  and  the  white  faces  of  the  north: 
Englishmen,  billeted  in  the  palace  of  Mehemet 
Ali! 


The  Passing  of  Cairo  19 

The  mosque  first  meets  the  eye,  preceding  the 
palace.  And  as  we  approach,  it  is  Stamboul 
indeed — for  me  dear  old  Stamboul — which  is 
called  to  mind;  there  is  nothing,  whether  in 
the  lines  of  its  architecture  or  in  the  details  of 
its  ornamentation,  to  suggest  the  art  of  the  Arabs 
— a purer  art  it  may  be  than  this  and  of  which 
many  excellent  examples  may  be  seen  in  Cairo. 
No;  it  is  a corner  of  Turkey  into  which  we  are 
suddenly  come. 

Beyond  a courtyard  paved  with  marble,  silent 
and  enclosed,  which  serves  as  a vast  parvis,  the 
sanctuary  recalls  those  of  Mehmet  Fatih  or  the 
Chah  Zade:  the  same  sanctified  gloom,  into 
which  the  stained  glass  of  the  narrow  windows 
casts  a splendour  as  of  precious  stones ; the  same 
extreme  distance  between  the  enormous  pillars, 
leaving  more  clear  space  than  in  our  churches, 
and  giving  to  the  domes  the  appearance  of  being 
held  up  by  enchantment. 

The  walls  are  of  a strange  white  marble 
streaked  with  yellow.  The  ground  is  com- 
pletely covered  with  carpets  of  a sombre  red. 
In  the  vaults,  very  elaborately  wrought,  nothing 
but  blacks  and  golds:  a background  of  black 
bestrewn  with  golden  roses,  and  bordered  with 
arabesques  like  gold  lace.  And  from  above  hang 
thousands  of  golden  chains  supporting  the  vigil 
lamps  for  the  evening  prayers.  Here  and  there 


20 


Egypt 

are  people  on  their  knees,  little  groups  in  robe 
and  turban,  scattered  fortuitously  upon  the  red 
of  the  carpets,  and  almost  lost  in  the  midst  of 
the  sumptuous  solitude. 

In  an  obscure  corner  lies  Mehemet  Ali. 
the  prince  adventurous  and  chivalrous  as  some 
legendary  hero,  and  withal  one  of  the  greatest 
sovereigns  of  modern  history.  There  he  lies 
behind  a grating  of  gold,  of  complicated  design, 
in  that  Turkish  style,  already  decadent,  but  still 
so  beautiful,  which  was  that  of  his  epoch. 

Through  the  golden  bars  may  be  seen  in  the 
shadow  the  catafalque  of  state,  in  three  tiers, 
covered  with  blue  brocades,  exquisitely  faded, 
and  profusely  embroidered  with  dull  gold.  Two 
long  green  palms  freshly  cut  from  some  date- 
tree  in  the  neighbourhood  are  crossed  before 
the  door  of  this  sort  of  funeral  enclosure.  And 
it  seems  that  around  us  is  an  inviolable  religious 
peace.  . . . 

But  all  at  once  there  comes  a noisy  chattering 
in  a Teutonic  tongue — and  shouts  and  laughs! 
. . . How  is  it  possible,  so  near  to  the  great 
dead?  . . . And  there  enters  a group  of  tourists, 
dressed  more  or  less  in  the  approved  “ smart  ” 
style.  A guide,  with  a droll  countenance, 
recites  to  them  the  beauties  of  the  place, 
bellowing  at  the  top  of  his  voice  like  a show- 
man at  a fair.  And  one  of  the  travellers. 


I 

I 

! The  Passing  of  Cairo  21 

stumbling  in  the  sandals  which  are  too  large 
i for  her  small  feet,  laughs  a prolonged,  silly 
little  laugh  like  the  clucking  of  a turkey.  . . . 

Is  there  then  no  keeper,  no  guardian  of  this 
I holy  mosque?  And  amongst  the  faithful  pros- 
trate here  in  prayer,  none  who  will  rise  and 
make  indignant  protest?  Who  after  this  will 
speak  to  us  of  the  fanaticism  of  the  Egyptians? 
. . . Too  meek,  rather,  they  seem  to  me  every- 
where. Take  any  church  you  please  in  Europe 
I where  men  go  down  on  their  knees  in  prayer, 
and  I should  like  to  see  what  kind  of  a wel- 
come would  be  accorded  to  a party  of  Moslem 
tourists  who — to  suppose  the  impossible — be- 
haved so  badly  as  these  savages  here. 

Behind  the  mosque  is  an  esplanade,  and 
beyond  that  the  palace.  The  palace,  as  such, 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  exist  any  longer,  for  it 
i has  been  turned  into  a barrack  for  the  army 
j of  occupation.  English  soldiers,  indeed,  meet  us 
at  every  turn,  smoking  their  pipes  in  the  idle- 
1 ness  of  the  evening.  One  of  them  who  does 
* not  smoke  is  trying  to  carve  his  name  with  a 
, knife  on  one  of  the  layers  of  marble  at  the  base 
I of  the  sanctuary. 

I At  the  end  of  this  esplanade  there  is  a kind 

!of  balcony  from  which  one  may  see  the  whole  of 
the  town,  and  an  unlimited  extent  of  verdant 
j plains  and  yellow  desert.  It  is  a favourite  view 


5 


22  Egypt 

of  the  tourists  of  the  agencies,  and  we  meet 
again  our  friends  of  the  mosque,  who  have  pre- 
ceded us  hither — the  gentlemen  with  the  loud 
voices,  the  bellowing  guide  and  the  cackling 
lady.  Some  soldiers  are  standing  there  too, 
smoking  their  pipes  contemplatively.  But  in 
spite  of  all  these  people,  in  spite,  too,  of  the 
wintry  sky,  the  scene  which  presents  itself  on 
arrival  there  is  ravishing. 

A very  fairyland — ^but  a fairyland  quite  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  Stamboul.  For  whereas  the 
latter  is  ranged  like  a great  amphitheatre  above 
the  Bosphorus  and  the  Sea  of  Marmora,  here 
the  vast  town  is  spread  out  simply,  in  a plain 
surrounded  by  the  solitude  of  the  desert  and 
dominated  by  chaotic  rocks.  Thousands  of 
minarets  rise  up  on  every  side  like  ears  of  corn 
in  a field;  far  away  in  the  distance  one  can  see 
their  innumerable  slender  points — but  instead 
of  being  simply,  as  at  Stamboul,  so  many  white 
spires,  they  are  here  complicated  by  arabesques, 
by  galleries,  clock-towers  and  little  columns,  and 
seem  to  have  borrowed  the  reddish  colour  of  the 
desert. 

The  flat  roofs  tell  of  a region  which  formerly 
was  without  rain.  The  innumerable  palm-trees 
of  the  gardens,  above  this  ocean  of  mosques  and 
houses,  sway  their  plumes  in  the  wind,  be- 
wildered as  it  were  by  these  clouds  laden  with 


The  Passing  of  Cairo  23 

cold  showers.  In  the  south  and  in  the  west, 
at  the  extreme  limits  of  the  view,  as  if  upon  the 
misty  horizon  of  the  plains,  appear  two  gigantic 
triangles.  They  are  Gizeh  and  Memphis — the 
eternal  pyramids. 

At  the  north  of  the  town  there  is  a corner 
of  the  desert  quite  singular  in  its  character — 
of  the  colour  of  bistre  and  of  mummy — where 
a whole  colony  of  high  cupolas,  scattered  at 
random,  still  stand  upright  in  the  midst  of  sand 
and  desolate  rocks.  It  is  the  proud  cemetery  of 
the  Mameluke  Sultans,  whose  day  was  done  in 
the  Middle  Ages. 

But  if  one  looks  closely,  what  disorder,  what 
a mass  of  ruins  there  are  in  this  town — still  a 
little  fairyhke  — beaten  this  evening  by  the 
squalls  of  winter.  The  domes,  the  holy  tombs, 
the  minarets  and  terraces,  all  are  crumbling: 
the  hand  of  death  is  upon  them  all.  But  down 
there,  in  the  far  distance,  near  to  that  silver 
streak  which  meanders  through  the  plains,  and 
which  is  the  old  Nile,  the  advent  of  new  times 
is  proclaimed  by  the  chimneys  of  factories, 
impudently  high,  that  disfigure  everything,  and 
spout  forth  into  the  twilight  thick  clouds  of 
black  smoke. 

The  night  is  falling  as  we  descend  from  the 
esplanade  to  return  to  our  lodgings. 

We  have  first  to  traverse  the  old  town  of 


24  Egypt 

Cairo,  a maze  of  streets  still  full  of  charm, 
wherein  the  thousand  little  lamps  of  the  Arab 
shops  already  shed  their  quiet  light.  Passing 
through  streets  which  twist  at  their  caprice, 
beneath  overhanging  balconies  covered  with 
wooden  trellis  of  exquisite  workmanship,  we 
have  to  slacken  speed  in  the  midst  of  a dense 
crowd  of  men  and  beasts.  Close  to  us  pass 
women,  veiled  in  black,  gently  mysterious  as 
in  the  olden  times,  and  men  of  unmoved  grav- 
ity, in  long  robes  and  white  draperies ; and 
little  donkeys  pompously  bedecked  in  collars  of 
blue  beads;  and  rows  of  leisurely  camels,  with 
their  loads  of  lucerne,  which  exhale  the  pleasant 
fragrance  of  the  fields.  And  when  in  the  gather- 
ing gloom,  which  hides  the  signs  of  decay,  there 
appear  suddenly,  above  the  little  houses,  so 
lavishly  ornamented  with  mushrabiyas  and  ara- 
besques, the  tall  aerial  minarets,  rising  to  a 
prodigious  height  into  the  twilight  sky,  it  is  still 
the  adorable  East. 

But  nevertheless,  what  ruins,  what  filth,  M^hat 
rubbish!  How  present  is  the  sense  of  impend- 
ing dissolution!  And  what  is  this:  large  pools 
of  water  in  the  middle  of  the  road!  Granted 
that  there  is  more  rain  here  than  formerly,  since 
the  valley  of  the  Nile  has  been  artificially 
irrigated,  it  still  seems  almost  impossible  that 
there  should  be  all  this  black  water,  into  which 


The  Passing  of  Cairo  25 

our  carriage  sinks  to  the  very  axles;  for  it  is  a 
clear  week  since  any  serious  quantity  of  rain  fell. 
It  would  seem  that  the  new  masters  of  this  land, 
albeit  the  cost  of  annual  upkeep  has  risen  in 
their  hands  to  the  sum  of  £15,000,000,  have 
given  no  thought  to  drainage.  But  the  good 
Arabs,  patiently  and  without  murmuring,  gather 
up  their  long  robes,  and  with  legs  bare  to  the 
knee  make  their  way  through  this  already  pesti- 
lential water,  which  must  be  hatching  for  them 
fever  and  death. 

Farther  on,  as  the  carriage  proceeds  on  its 
course,  the  scene  changes  little  by  little.  The 
streets  become  vulgar : the  houses  of  “ The 
Arabian  Nights  ” give  place  to  tasteless  Levan- 
tine buildings;  electric  lamps  begin  to  pierce 
the  darkness  with  their  wan,  fatiguing  glare, 
and  at  a sharp  turning  -the  new  Cairo  is 
before  us. 

IVhat  is  this?  Where  are  we  fallen?  Save 
that  it  is  more  vulgar,  it  might  be  Nice,  or  the 
Riviera,  or  Interlaken,  or  any  other  of  those 
towns  of  carnival  whither  the  bad  taste  of  the 
whole  world  comes  to  disport  itself  in  the  so- 
called  fashionable  seasons.  But  in  these  Quarters, 
on  the  other  hand,  which  belong  to  the  foreigners 
and  to  the  Egyptians  rallied  to  the  civilisation  of 
the  West,  aU  is  clean  and  dry,  well  cared  for  and 
well  kept.  There  are  no  ruts,  no  refuse.  The 


26  Egypt 

fifteen  million  pounds  have  done  their  work 
conscientiously. 

Everywhere  is  the  blinding  glare  of  the  electric 
light ; monstrous  hotels  parade  the  sham  splendour 
of  their  painted  fa9ades;  the  whole  length  of 
the  streets  is  one  long  triumph  of  imitation,  of 
mud  walls  plastered  so  as  to  look  like  stone;  a 
medley  of  all  styles,  rockwork,  Roman,  Gothic, 
New  Art,  Pharaonic,  and,  above  all,  the  pre- 
tentious and  the  absurd.  Innumerable  public 
houses  overflow  with  bottles ; every  alcoholic 
drink,  all  the  poisons  of  the  West,  are  here  turned 
into  Egypt  with  a take-what-you-please. 

And  taverns,  gambling-dens  and  houses  of  ill- 
fame.  And  parading  the  side- walks,  numerous 
Levantine  damsels,  who  seek  by  their  finery  to 
imitate  their  fellows  of  the  Paris  boulevards,  hut 
who  by  mistake,  as  we  must  suppose,  have  placed 
their  orders  with  some  costumier  for  performing 
dogs. 

This  then  is  the  Cairo  of  the  future,  this 
cosmopolitan  fair!  Good  heavens!  When  will 
the  Egyptians  recollect  themselves,  when  will 
they  realise  that  their  forebears  have  left  to  them 
an  inalienable  patrimony  of  art,  of  architecture 
and  exquisite  refinement;  and  that,  by  their 
negligence,  one  of  those  towns  which  used  to  be 
the  most  beautiful  in  the  world  is  falling  into 
ruin  and  about  to  perish? 


The  Passing  of  Cairo  27 

And  nevertheless  amongst  the  young  INIoslems 
and  Copts  now  leaving  the  schools  there  are 
so  many  of  distinguished  mind  and  superior 
intelligence!  When  I see  the  things  that  are 
here,  see  them  with  the  fresh  eyes  of  a stranger, 
landed  but  yesterday  upon  this  soil,  impregnated 
with  the  glory  of  antiquity,  I want  to  cry  out 
to  them,  with  a frankness  that  is  brutal  perhaps, 
but  with  a profound  sympathy: 

“ Bestir  yourselves  before  it  is  too  late.  Defend 
yourselves  against  this  disintegrating  invasion — 
not  by  force,  be  it  understood,  not  by  inhospi- 
tality or  ill-humour  — but  by  disdaining  this 
Occidental  rubbish,  this  last  year’s  frippery  by 
which  you  are  inundated.  Try  to  preserve  not 
only  your  traditions  and  your  admirable  Arab 
language,  but  also  the  grace  and  mystery  that 
used  to  characterise  your  town,  the  refined 
luxury  of  your  dwelling-houses.  It  is  not  a 
question  now  of  a poet’s  fancy;  your  national 
dignity  is  at  stake.  You  are  Orientals — I pro- 
nounce respectfully  that  word,  which  implies 
a whole  past  of  early  civilisation,  of  unmingled 
greatness — but  in  a few  years,  unless  you  are  on 
your  guard,  you  will  have  become  mere  Levantine 
brokers,  exclusively  preoccupied  with  the  price 
of  land  and  the  rise  in  cotton.” 


THE  MOSQUES  OF  CAIRO 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  MOSQUES  OF  CAIRO 

They  are  almost  innumerable,  more  than  3000, 
and  this  great  town,  which  covers  some  twelve 
miles  of  plain,  might  well  be  called  a city  of 
mosques.  (I  speak,  of  course,  of  the  ancient 
Cairo,  of  the  Cairo  of  the  Arabs.  The  new 
Cairo,  the  Cairo  of  sham  elegance  and  of 
“ Semiramis  Hotels,”  does  not  deserve  to  be 
mentioned  except  with  a smile.) 

A city  of  mosques,  then,  as  I was  saying. 
They  follow  one  another  along  the  streets,  some- 
times two,  three,  four  in  a row;  leaning  one 
against  the  other,  so  that  their  confines  become 
merged.  On  all  sides  their  minarets  shoot  up 
into  the  air,  those  minarets  embellished  with 
arabesques,  carved  and  complicated  with  the 
most  changing  fancy.  They  have  their  little 
balconies,  their  rows  of  little  columns;  they  are 
so  fashioned  that  the  daylight  shows  through 
them.  Some  are  far  away  in  the  distance;  others 
quite  close,  pointing  straight  into  the  sky  above 
our  heads.  No  matter  where  one  looks — as  far 
as  the  eye  can  see — still  there  are  others;  all 
of  the  same  familiar  colour,  a brown  turning 

31 


32  Egypt 

into  rose.  The  most  ancient  of  them,  those  of 
the  old  easy-tempered  times,  bristle  with  shafts 
of  wood,  placed  there  as  resting  places  for  the 
great  free  birds  of  the  air,  and  \mltures  and 
ravens  may  always  be  seen  perched  there,  con- 
templating the  horizon  of  the  sands,  the  line  of 
the  yellow  solitudes. 

Three  thousand  mosques ! Their  great  straight 
walls,  a little  severe  perhaps,  and  scarcely  pierced 
by  their  tiny  ogive  windows,  rise  above  the 
height  of  the  neighbouring  houses.  These  walls 
are  of  the  same  brown  colour  as  the  minarets, 
except  that  they  are  painted  with  horizontal 
stripes  of  an  old  red,  which  has  been  faded  by 
the  sun;  and  they  are  crowned  invariably  with 
a series  of  trefoils,  after  the  fashion  of  battle- 
ments, but  trefoils  which  in  every  case  are  dif- 
ferent and  surprising. 

Before  the  mosques,  which  are  raised  like 
altars,  there  is  always  a flight  of  steps  with  a 
balustrade  of  white  marble.  From  the  door  one 
gets  a glimpse  of  the  calm  interior  in  deep 
shadow.  Once  inside  there  are  corridors,  as- 
tonishingly lofty,  sonorous  and  enveloped  in  a 
kind  of  half  gloom;  immediately  on  entering 
one  experiences  a sense  of  coolness  and  per- 
vading peace;  they  prepare  you  as  it  were,  and 
you  begin  to  be  fllled  with  a spirit  of  devotion, 
and  instinctively  to  speak  low.  In  the  narrow 


The  Mosques  of  Cairo  33 

street  outside  there  was  the  clamorous  uproar 
of  an  Oriental  crowd,  cries  of  sellers,  and  the 
noise  of  humble  old-world  trading;  men  and 
beasts  jostled  you;  there  seemed  a scarcity  of 
air  beneath  those  so  numerous  overhanging 
mushrabiyas.  But  here  suddenly  there  is  si- 
lence, broken  only  by  the  vague  murmur  of 
prayers  and  the  sweet  songs  of  birds;  there  is 
silence  too,  and  the  sense  of  open  space,  in  the 
holy  garden  enclosed  within  high  walls;  and 
again  in  the  sanctuary,  resplendent  in  its  quiet 
and  restful  magnificence.  Few  people  as  a rule 
frequent  the  mosques,  except  of  course  at  the 
hours  of  the  five  services  of  the  day.  In  a few 
chosen  corners,  particularly  cool  and  shady, 
some  greybeards  isolate  themselves  to  read  from 
morning  till  night  the  holy  books  and  to  ponder 
the  thought  of  approaching  death:  they  may  be 
seen  there  in  their  white  turbans,  with  their  white 
beards  and  grave  faces.  And  there  may  be,  too, 
some  few  poor  homeless  outcasts,  who  are  come 
to  seek  the  hospitality  of  Allah,  and  sleep, 
careless  of  the  morrow,  stretched  to  their  full 
length  on  mats. 

The  peculiar  charm  of  the  gardens  of  the 
mosques,  which  are  often  very  extensive,  is  that 
they  are  so  jealously  enclosed  within  their  high 
walls  — crowned  always  with  stone  trefoils  — 
which  completely  shut  out  the  hubbub  of  the 


3+  Egypt 

outer  world.  Palm-trees,  which  have  grown 
there  for  some  hundred  years  perliaps,  rise  from 
the  ground,  either  separately  or  in  superb 
clusters,  and  temper  the  light  of  the  always  hot 
sun  on  the  rose-trees  and  the  flowering  hibiscus. 
There  is  no  noise  in  the  gardens,  any  more  than 
in  the  cloisters,  for  people  walk  there  in  sandals 
and  with  measured  tread.  And  there  are  Edens, 
too,  for  the  birds,  who  live  and  sing  therein  in 
complete  security,  even  during  the  services, 
attracted  by  the  little  troughs  which  the  imams 
fill  for  their  benefit  each  morning  with  water 
from  the  Nile. 

As  for  the  mosque  itself  it  is  rarely  closed  on 
all  sides  as  are  those  in  the  countries  of  the  more 
sombre  Islam  of  the  north.  Here  in  Egypt 
— since  there  is  no  real  vdnter  and  scarcely  ever 
any  rain — one  of  the  sides  of  the  mosque  is  left 
completely  open  to  the  garden;  and  the  sanctu- 
ary is  separated  from  the  verdure  and  the  roses 
only  by  a simple  colonnade.  Thus  the  faithful 
grouped  beneath  the  palm-trees  can  pray  there 
equally  as  well  as  in  the  interior  of  the  mosque, 
since  they  can  see,  between  the  arches,  the 
holy  Mihrab.^ 

^ The  Mihrab  is  a kind  of  portico  indicating  the  direction  of 
Mecca.  It  is  placed  at  the  end  of  each  mosque,  as  the  altar  is 
in  our  churches,  and  the  faithful  are  supposed  to  face  it  when 
they  pray. 


The  Mosques  of  Cairo  35 

Oh!  this  sanctuary  seen  from  the  silent 
garden,  this  sanctuary  in  which  the  pale  gold 
gleams  on  the  old  ceiling  of  cedarwood,  and 
mosaics  of  mother-of-pearl  shine  on  the  walls  as 
if  they  were  embroideries  of  silver  that  had  been 
hung  there. 

There  is  no  faience  as  in  the  mosques  of 
Turkey  or  of  Iran.  Here  it  is  the  triumph  of 
patient  mosaic.  Mother-of-pearl  of  all  colours, 
all  kinds  of  marble  and  of  porphyry,  cut  into 
myriads  of  little  pieces,  precise  and  equal,  and 
put  together  again  to  form  the  Arab  designs, 
whieh,  never  borrowing  from  the  human  form, 
nor  indeed  from  the  form  of  any  animal,  recall 
rather  those  infinitely  varied  crystals  that  may 
be  seen  imder  the  microscope  in  a flake  of  snow. 
It  is  always  the  Mihrab  which  is  decorated  with 
the  most  elaborate  riehness;  generally  little 
colunms  of  lapis  lazuli,  intensely  blue,  rise  in 
relief  from  it,  framing  mosaics  so  delicate  that 
they  look  like  brocades  or  fine  lace.  In  the  old 
ceilings  of  cedarwood,  where  the  singing  birds 
of  the  neighbourhood  have  their  nests,  the  golds 
mingle  with  some  most  exquisite  colourings, 
which  time  has  taken  care  to  soften  and  to  blend 
together.  And  here  and  there  very  fine  and 
long  consoles  of  sculptured  wood  seem  to  fall,  as 
it  were,  from  the  beams  and  hang  upon  the  walls 
like  stalaetites;  and  these  consoles,  too,  in  past 


36  Egypt 

times,  have  been  carefully  coloured  and  gilded. 
As  for  the  columns,  always  dissimilar,  some  of 
amaranth-coloured  marble,  others  of  dark  green, 
others  again  of  red  porphyry,  with  capitals  of 
every  conceivable  style,  they  are  come  from  far, 
from  the  night  of  the  ages,  from  the  religious 
struggles  of  an  earlier  time  and  testifj’^  to  the 
prodigious  past  which  this  valley  of  the  Nile, 
narrow  as  it  is,  and  encompassed  by  the  desert, 
has  known.  They  were  formerly  perhaps  in  the 
temples  of  the  pagans,  or  have  know  n the  strange 
faces  of  the  gods  of  Egypt  and  of  ancient  Greece 
and  Rome;  they  have  been  in  the  churches  of 
the  early  Christians,  or  have  seen  the  statues  of 
tortured  martyrs,  and  the  images  of  the  trans- 
figured Christ,  crowned  with  the  Byzantine 
aureole.  They  have  been  present  at  battles,  at 
the  dowmfall  of  kingdoms,  at  hecatombs,  at  sacri- 
leges; and  now  brought  together  promiscuously 
in  these  mosques,  they  behold  on  the  walls 
of  the  sanctuary  simply  the  thousand  little 
designs,  ideally  pure,  of  that  Islam  which  wishes 
that  men  when  they  pray  should  conceive  Allah 
as  immaterial,  a Spirit  without  form  and  without 
feature. 

Each  one  of  these  mosques  has  its  sainted 
dead,  whose  name  it  bears,  and  wlio  sleeps  by  its 
side,  in  an  adjoining  mortuary  kiosk;  some  priest 
rendered  admirable  by  his  virtues,  or  perhaps  a 


The  Mosques  of  Cairo  37 

khedive  of  earlier  times,  or  a soldier,  or  a martyr. 
And  the  mausoleum,  which  communicates  with 
the  sanctuary  by  means  of  a long  passage,  some- 
times open,  sometimes  covered  with  gratings,  is 
surmounted  always  by  a special  kind  of  cupola, 
a very  high  and  curious  cupola,  which  raises 
itself  into  the  sky  like  some  gigantic  dervish  hat. 
Above  the  Arab  town,  and  even  in  the  sand  of 
the  neighbouring  desert,  these  funeral  domes 
may  be  seen  on  every  side  adjoining  the  old 
mosques  to  which  they  belong.  And  in  the 
evening,  when  the  light  is  failing,  they  suggest 
the  odd  idea  that  it  is  the  dead  man  himself, 
immensely  magnified,  who  stands  there  beneath 
a hat  that  is  become  immense.  One  can  pray, 
if  one  wishes,  in  this  resting  place  of  the  dead 
saint  as  well  as  in  the  mosque.  Here  indeed 
it  is  always  more  secluded  and  more  in  shadow. 
It  is  more  simple,  too,  at  least  up  to  the  height  of 
a man:  on  a platform  of  white  marble,  more  or 
less  worn  and  yellowed  by  the  touch  of  pious 
hands,  nothing  more  than  an  austere  catafalque 
of  similar  marble,  ornamented  merely  with  a 
Cufic  inscription.  But  if  you  raise  your  eyes  to 
look  at  the  interior  of  the  dome — the  inside,  as 
it  were,  of  the  strange  dervish  hat — you  will  see 
shining  between  the  clusters  of  painted  and 
gilded  stalactites  a number  of  windows  of  ex- 
quisite colouring,  little  windows  that  seem  to  be 


38  Egypt 

constellations  of  emeralds  and  rubies  and  sap- 
phires. And  the  birds,  you  may  be  sure,  have 
their  nests  also  in  the  house  of  the  holy  one. 
They  are  wont  indeed  to  soil  the  carpets  and 
the  mats  on  which  the  worshippers  kneel,  and 
their  nests  are  so  many  blots  up  there  amid 
the  gildings  of  the  carved  cedarwood;  but  then 
their  song,  the  symphony  that  issues  from  that 
aviary,  is  so  sweet  to  the  living  who  pray  and  to 
the  dead  who  dream.  . . . 

• •••••• 

But  yet,  when  all  is  said,  these  mosques  seem 
somehow  to  be  wanting.  They  do  not  wholly 
satisfy  you.  The  access  to  them  perhaps  is  too 
easy,  and  one  feels  too  near  to  the  modern 
quarters  of  the  town,  where  the  hotels  are  full 
of  visitors — so  that  at  any  moment,  it  seems, 
tlie  spell  may  be  broken  by  the  entry  of  a batch 
of  Cook’s  tourists,  armed  with  the  inevitable 
Baedeker.  Alas!  they  are  the  mosques  of 
Cairo,  of  poor  Cairo,  that  is  invaded  and  pro- 
faned. The  memory  turns  to  those  of  IMorocco, 
so  jealously  guarded,  to  those  of  Persia,  even 
to  those  of  Old  Stamboul,  where  the  shroud  of 
Islam  envelops  you  in  silence  and  gently  bows 
your  shoulders  as  soon  as  you  cross  their 
thresholds. 

And  yet  what  pains  are  being  taken  to-day 
to  preserve  these  mosques,  which  in  olden  times 


The  Mosques  of  Cairo  39 

were  such  delightful  retreats.  Neglected  for 
whole  centuries,  never  repaired,  notwithstanding 
the  veneration  of  their  heedless  worshippers,  the 
greater  part  of  them  were  fallen  into  ruin;  the 
fine  woodwork  of  their  interiors  had  become 
worm-eaten,  their  cupolas  were  cracked  and 
their  mosaics  covered  the  floor  as  with  a hail 
of  mother-of-pearl,  of  porphyry  and  marble.  It 
seemed  that  to  repair  all  this  was  a task  in- 
capable of  fulfilment;  it  was  sheer  folly,  people 
said,  to  conceive  the  idea  of  it. 

Nevertheless,  for  nearly  twenty  years  now  an 
army  of  workers  has  been  at  the  task,  sculptors, 
marble-cutters,  mosaicists.  Already  certain  of 
the  sanctuaries,  the  most  venerable  of  them 
indeed,  have  been  entirely  renovated.  After 
having  re-echoed  for  some  years  to  the  sounds 
of  hammers  and  chisels,  during  the  course  of 
these  vast  renovations,  they  are  restored  now 
to  peace  and  to  prayer,  and  the  birds  have  re- 
commenced to  build  their  nests  in  them. 

It  will  be  the  glory  of  the  present  reign  that 
it  has  preserved,  before  it  was  too  late,  all  this 
magnificent  legacy  of  Moslem  art.  When 
the  city  of  “ The  Arabian  Nights,”  which  was 
formerly  here,  shall  have  entirely  disappeared,  to 
give  place  to  a vulgar  entrepot  of  commerce  and 
of  pleasure,  to  which  the  plutocracy  of  the  whole 
world  comes  every  winter  to  disport  itself,  so 


+°  Egypt 

much  at  least  will  remain  to  bear  testimony  to 
the  lofty  and  magnificent  thought  that  inspired 
the  earlier  Arab  fife.  These  mosques  will  con- 
tinue to  remain  into  the  distant  future,  even 
when  men  shall  have  ceased  to  pray  in  them, 
and  the  winged  guests  shall  have  departed,  for 
the  want  of  those  troughs  of  water  from  the 
Nile,  filled  for  them  by  the  good  imams,  whose 
hospitality  they  repay  by  making  heard  in  the 
courts,  beneath  the  arched  roofs,  beneath  the 
ceilings  of  cedarwood,  the  sweet,  piping  music 
of  birds. 


THE  HALL  OF 
THE  MUMMIES 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  HALL  OF  THE  MUMMIES 

There  are  two  of  us,  and  as  we  light  our  way 
by  the  aid  of  a lantern  through  these  vast  halls 
we  might  be  taken  for  a night  watch  on  its 
round.  We  have  just  shut  behind  us  and 
doubly  locked  the  door  by  which  we  entered, 
and  we  know  that  we  are  alone,  rigorously 
alone,  although  this  place  is  so  vast,  with  its 
endless,  communicating  halls,  its  high  vestibules 
and  great  flights  of  stairs ; mathematically  alone, 
one  might  almost  say,  for  this  palace  that  we 
are  in  is  one  quite  out  of  the  ordinary,  and  all 
its  outlets  were  closed  and  sealed  at  nightfall. 
Every  night  indeed  the  doors  are  sealed,  on 
account  of  the  priceless  relics  that  are  collected 
here.  So  we  shall  not  meet  with  any  living 
being  in  these  halls  to-night,  spite  of  their  vast 
extent  and  endless  turnings,  and  in  spite  too 
of  all  these  mysterious  things  that  are  ranged 
on  every  side  and  fill  the  place  with  shadows 
and  hiding  places. 

Our  round  takes  us  first  along  the  ground 
floor  over  flagstones  that  resound  to  our  foot- 
steps. It  is  about  ten  of  the  clock.  Here  and 
43 


++  Egypt 

there  through  some  stray  window  gleams  a small 
patch  of  luminous  blue  sky,  lit  by  the  stars 
which  for  the  good  folk  outside  lend  trans- 
parency to  the  night;  but  here,  none  the  less, 
the  place  is  filled  with  a solemn  gloom,  and  we 
lower  our  voices,  remembering  perhaps  the  dead 
that  fill  the  glass  cases  in  the  halls  above. 

And  these  things  which  line  the  walls  on 
either  side  of  us  as  we  pass  also  seem  to  be 
in  the  nature  of  receptacles  for  the  dead.  For 
the  most  part  they  are  sarcophagi  of  granite, 
proud  and  indestructible : some  of  them,  in 
the  shape  of  gigantic  boxes,  are  laid  out  in  line 
on  pedestals;  others,  in  the  form  of  mummies, 
stand  upright  against  the  walls  and  display 
enormous  faces,  surmounted  by  equally  enormous 
head-dresses.  Assembled  there  they  look  like 
a lot  of  malformed  giants,  with  oversized  heads 
sunk  curiously  in  their  shoulders.  There  are, 
besides,  some  that  are  merely  statues,  colossal 
figures  that  have  never  held  a corpse  in  their 
interiors;  these  all  wear  a strange,  scarcely  per- 
ceptible smile;  in  their  huge  sphinxlike  head- 
gear  they  reach  nearly  to  the  ceiling  and  their 
set  stare  passes  high  above  our  heads.  And 
there  are  others  that  are  not  larger  than  our- 
selves, some  even  quite  little,  with  the  stature 
of  gnomes.  And,  every  now  and  then,  at  some 
sudden  turning,  we  encounter  a paii*  of  eyes  of 


The  Hall  of  the  Mummies  45 

enamel,  wide-open  eyes,  that  pierce  straight  into 
the  depths  of  ours,  that  seem  to  follow  us  as  we 
pass  and  make  us  shiver  as  if  by  the  contact 
of  a thought  that  comes  from  the  abysm  of  the 
ages. 

We  pass  on  rapidly,  however,  and  somewhat 
inattentively,  for  our  business  here  to-night  is 
not  with  these  simulacra  on  the  ground  floor, 
but  with  the  more  redoubtable  hosts  above. 
Besides  our  lantern  sheds  so  little  light  in  these 
great  halls  that  all  these  people  of  granite  and^ 
sandstone  and  marble  appear  only  at  the  precise 
moment  of  our  passage,  appear  only  to  dis- 
appear, and,  spreading  their  fantastic  shadows 
on  the  walls,  mingle  the  next  moment  with 
the  great  mute  crowd,  that  grows  ever  more 
numerous  behind  us. 

Placed  at  intervals  are  apparatus  for  use  in 
case  of  fire,  coils  of  hose  and  standpipes  that 
shine  with  the  warm  glow  of  burnished  copper, 
and  I ask  my  companion  of  the  watch:  “ What 
is  there  that  could  burn  here?  Are  not  these 
good  people  all  of  stone?”  And  he  answers: 
“Not  here  indeed;  but  consider  how  the  things 
that  are  above  would  blaze.”  Ah!  yes.  The 
“ things  that  are  above  ” — which  are  indeed  the 
object  of  my  visit  to-night.  I had  not  thought 
of  fire  catching  hold  in  an  assembly  of  mummies ; 
of  the  old  withered  flesh,  the  dead,  dry  hair,  the 


46  Egypt 

venerable  carcasses  of  kings  and  queens,  soaked 
as  they  are  in  natron  and  oils,  crackling  like  so 
many  boxes  of  matches.  It  is  chiefly  on  account 
of  this  danger  indeed  that  the  seals  are  put  upon 
the  doors  at  nightfall,  and  that  it  needs  a special 
favour  to  be  allowed  to  penetrate  into  this  place 
at  night  with  a lantern. 

In  the  daytime  this  “ Museum  of  Egyptian 
Antiquities  ” is  as  vulgar  a thing  as  you  can 
conceive,  filled  though  it  is  with  priceless 
treasures.  It  is  the  most  pompous,  the  most 
outrageous  of  those  buildings,  of  no  style  at  all, 
by  which  each  year  the  New  Cairo  is  enriched; 
open  to  all  who  care  to  gaze  at  close  quarters,  in 
a light  that  is  almost  brutal,  upon  these  august 
dead,  who  fondly  thought  that  they  had  hidden 
themselves  for  ever. 

But  at  night!  . . . Ah!  at  night  when  all  the 
doors  are  closed,  it  is  the  palace  of  nightmare 
and  of  fear.  At  night,  so  say  the  Arab  guardians, 
wbo  would  not  enter  it  at  the  price  of  gold — no, 
not  even  after  offering  up  a prayer — at  night, 
horrible  “ forms  ” escape,  not  only  from  the  em- 
balmed bodies  that  sleep  in  the  glass  cases  above, 
but  also  from  the  great  statues,  from  the  papyri, 
and  the  thousand  and  one  things  that,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  tombs,  have  long  been  impregnated 
with  human  essence.  And  these  “ forms  ” are 
like  unto  dead  bodies,  and  sometimes  to  strange 


The  Hall  of  the  Mummies  47 

beasts,  even  to  beasts  that  crawl.  And,  after 
having  wandered  about  the  halls,  they  end  by 
assembling  for  their  nocturnal  conferences  on  the 
roofs. 

We  next  ascend  a staircase  of  monumental 
proportions,  empty  in  its  whole  extent,  where 
we  are  delivered  for  a httle  while  from  the 
obsession  of  those  rigid  figures,  from  the  stares 
and  smiles  of  the  good  people  in  white  stone  and 
black  granite  who  throng  the  galleries  and  vesti- 
bules on  the  ground  floor.  None  of  them,  to  be 
sure,  will  follow  us;  but  all  the  same  they  guard 
in  force  and  perplex  with  their  shadows  the  only 
way  by  which  we  can  retreat,  if  the  formidable 
hosts  above  have  in  store  for  us  too  sinister  a 
welcome. 

He  to  whose  courtesy  I owe  the  relaxation  of 
the  orders  of  the  night  is  the  illustrious  savant 
to  whose  care  has  been  entrusted  the  direction  of 
the  excavations  in  Egyptian  soil;  he  is  also  the 
comptroller  of  this  vast  museum,  and  it  is  he 
himself  who  has  kindly  consented  to  act  as  my 
guide  to-night  through  its  mazy  labyrinth. 

Across  the  silent  halls  above  we  now  proceed 
straight  towards  those  of  whom  I have  demanded 
this  nocturnal  audience. 

To-night  the  succession  of  these  rooms,  filled 
with  glass  cases,  which  cover  more  than  four 
hundred  yards  along  the  four  sides  of  the  build- 


48  Egypt 

ing,  seems  to  be  without  end.  After  passing, 
in  turn,  the  papyri,  the  enamels,  the  vases  that 
contain  human  entrails,  we  reach  the  mummies 
of  the  sacred  beasts:  cats,  ibises,  dogs,  hawks, 
all  with  their  mummy  cloths  and  sarcophagi; 
and  monkeys,  too,  that  remain  grotesque  even 
in  death.  Then  commence  the  human  masks, 
and,  upright  in  glass-fronted  cupboards,  the 
mummy  cases  in  w'hich  the  body,  swathed  in 
its  mmnmy  cloths,  was  moulded,  and  which 
reproduced,  more  or  less  enlarged,  the  figure  of 
the  deceased.  Quite  a lot  of  courtesans  of  the 
Greco-Roman  epoch,  moulded  in  paste  in  this 
wise  after  death  and  crowned  with  roses,  smile 
at  us  provokingly  from  behind  their  window's. 
]\Iasks  of  the  colour  of  dead  flesh  alternate  with 
others  of  gold  w'hich  gleam  as  the  light  of  our 
lantern  plays  upon  them  momentarily  in  our 
rapid  passage.  Their  eyes  are  always  too  large, 
the  eyelids  too  wide  open  and  the  dilated  pupils 
seem  to  stare  at  us  with  alarm.  Amongst  these 
mummy  cases  and  these  coffin  lids  fashioned  in 
the  shape  of  the  human  figure,  there  are  some 
that  seem  to  have  been  made  for  giants;  the 
head  especially,  beneath  its  cumbrous  head-dress 
the  head  stuffed  as  it  w'ere  between  the  hunch- 
back shoulders,  looks  enormous,  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  body  which,  towards  the  feet, 
narrow's  like  a scabbard. 


The  Hall  of  the  Mummies  49 

Although  our  little  lantern  maintains  its  light 
we  seem  to  see  here  less  and  less:  the  darkness 
around  us  in  these  vast  rooms  becomes  almost 
overpowering — and  these  are  the  rooms,  too,  that, 
leading  one  into  the  other,  facilitate  the  midnight 
promenade  of  those  dread  “ forms  ” which,  every 
evening,  are  released  and  roam  about.  . . . 

On  a table  in  the  middle  of  one  of  these  rooms 
a thing  to  make  you  shudder  gleams  in  a glass 
box,  a fragile  thing  that  failed  of  life  some  two 
thousand  years  ago.  It  is  the  mummy  of  a 
human  embryo,  and  someone,  to  appease  the 
malice  of  this  born-dead  thing,  had  covered  its 
face  with  a coating  of  gold — for,  according  to  the 
belief  of  the  Egyptians,  these  little  abortions 
became  the  evil  genii  of  their  families  if  proper 
honour  was  not  paid  to  them.  At  the  end  of  its 
negligible  body,  the  gilded  head,  with  its  great 
fcetus  eyes,  is  unforgettable  for  its  suffering  ugli- 
ness, for  its  frustrated  and  ferocious  expression. 

In  the  halls  into  which  we  next  penetrate 
there  are  veritable  dead  bodies  ranged  on  either 
side  of  us  as  we  pass;  their  coffins  are  displayed 
in  tiers  one  above  the  other;  the  air  is  heavy 
with  the  sickly  odour  of  mummies;  and  on  the 
ground,  curled  always  like  some  huge  serpent, 
the  leather  hoses  are  in  readiness,  for  here  indeed 
is  the  danger  spot  for  fire. 

And  the  master  of  this  strange  house  whispers 


50  Egypt 

to  me:  “This  is  the  place.  Look!  There  they 
are.” 

In  truth  I recognise  the  place,  having  often 
come  here  in  the  daytime,  like  other  people.  In 
spite  of  the  darkness,  which  commences  at  some 
ten  paces  from  us — so  small  is  the  circle  of  light 
cast  by  our  lantern — I can  distinguish  the  double 
row  of  the  great  royal  coffins,  open  without 
shame  in  their  glass  cases.  And  standing  against 
the  walls,  upright,  like  so  many  sentinels,  are 
the  coffin  lids,  fashioned  in  the  shape  of  the 
human  figure. 

We  are  there  at  last,  admitted  at  this  un- 
seasonable hour  into  the  guest-chamber  of  kings 
and  queens,  for  an  audience  that  is  private 
indeed. 

And  there,  first  of  all,  is  the  woman  with  the 
baby,  upon  whom,  without  stopping,  we  throw 
the  light  of  our  lantern.  \ woman  who  died  in 
giving  to  the  world  a little  dead  prince.  Since 
the  old  embalmers  no  one  has  seen  the  face  of 
this  Queen  Makeri.  In  her  coffin  there  she 
is  simply  a tall  female  figure,  outlined  beneath 
the  close-bound  swathings  of  brown-coloured 
bandages.  At  her  feet  lies  the  fatal  baby, 
grotesquely  shrivelled,  and  veiled  and  mysterious 
as  the  mother  herself;  a sort  of  doll,  it  seems, 
put  there  to  keep  her  eternal  company  in  the 
slow  passing  of  endless  years. 


The  Hall  of  the  Mummies  51 

More  fearsome  to  approach  is  the  row  of 
unswathed  mummies  that  follow.  Here,  in  each 
coffin  over  which  we  bend,  there  is  a face  which 
stares  at  us — or  else  closes  its  eyes  in  order  that 
it  may  not  see  us;  and  meagre  shoulders  and 
lean  arms,  and  hands  with  overgrown  nails  that 
protrude  from  miserable  rags.  And  each  royal 
mummy  that  our  lantern  lights  reserves  for  us  a 
fresh  surprise  and  the  shudder  of  a different  fear 
— they  resemble  one  another  so  little.  Some  of 
them  seem  to  laugh,  showing  their  yellow  teeth; 
others  have  an  expression  of  infinite  sadness  and 
suffering.  Sometimes  the  faces  are  small,  refined 
and  still  beautiful  despite  the  pinching  of  the 
nostrils ; sometimes  they  are  excessively  enlarged 
by  putrid  swelling,  with  the  tip  of  the  nose 
eaten  away.  The  embalmers,  we  know,  were 
not  sure  of  their  means,  and  the  mummies  were 
not  always  a success.  In  some  cases  putrefac- 
tion ensued,  and  corruption  and  even  sudden 
hatchings  of  larvae,  those  “ companions  without 
ears  and  without  eyes,”  which  died  indeed  in  time 
but  only  after  they  had  perforated  all  the  flesh. 

Hard  by  are  ranked  according  to  dynasty,  and 
in  chronological  order,  the  proud  Pharaohs  in 
a piteous  row:  father,  son,  grandson,  great- 
grandson.  And  common  paper  tickets  tell  their 
tremendous  names,  Seti  I.,  Ramses  II.,  Seti  II., 
Ramses  III.,  Ramses  IV.  . . . Soon  the  muster 


52  Egypt 

will  be  complete,  with  such  energy  have  men 
dug  in  the  heart  of  the  rocks  to  find  them  all; 
and  these  glass  cases  will  no  doubt  be  their 
final  resting  place.  In  olden  days,  however,  they 
made  many  pilgrimages  after  their  death,  for 
in  the  troubled  times  of  the  history  of  Egypt  it 
was  one  of  the  harassing  preoccupations  of  the 
reigning  sovereign  to  hide,  to  hide  at  all  costs, 
the  mummies  of  his  ancestors,  which  filled  the 
earth  increasingly,  and  which  the  violators  of 
tombs  were  so  swift  to  track.  Then  they  were 
carried  clandestinely  from  one  grave  to  another, 
raised  each  from  his  own  pompous  sepulchre,  to 
be  buried  at  last  together  in  some  hmnble  and 
less  conspicuous  vault.  But  it  is  here,  in  this 
museum  of  Egyptian  antiquities,  that  they  are 
about  to  accomplish  their  return  to  dust,  which 
has  been  deferred,  as  if  by  miracle,  for  so  many 
centuries.  Now,  stripped  of  their  bandages, 
their  days  are  numbered,  and  it  behoves  us  to 
hasten  to  draw  these  physiognomies  of  three 
or  four  thousand  years  ago,  which  are  about  to 
perish. 

In  that  coffin — the  last  but  one  of  the  row  on 
the  left — it  is  the  great  Sesostris  himself  who 
awaits  us.  We  know  of  old  that  face  of  ninety 
years,  with  its  nose  hooked  like  the  beak  of  a 
falcon;  and  the  gaps  between  those  old  man’s 
teeth;  the  meagre,  birdlike  neck,  and  the  hand 


The  Hall  of  the  Mummies  53 

raised  in  a gesture  of  menace.  Twenty  years  have 
elapsed  since  he  was  brought  back  to  the  light, 
this  master  of  the  world.  He  was  wrapped 
thousands  of  times  in  a marvellous  winding-sheet, 
woven  of  aloe  fibres,  finer  than  the  mushn  of 
India,  which  must  have  taken  years  in  the 
making  and  measured  more  than  400  yards 
in  length.  The  unswathing,  done  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Khedive  Tewfik  and  the  great  per- 
sonages of  Eg5^pt,  lasted  two  hours,  and  after 
the  last  turn,  when  the  illustrious  figure  ap- 
peared, the  emotion  amongst  the  assistants  was 
such  that  they  stampeded  like  a herd  of  cattle, 
and  the  Pharaoh  was  overturned.  He  has, 
moreover,  given  much  cause  for  conversation, 
this  great  Sesostris,  since  his  installation  in  the 
museum.  Suddenly  one  day  with  a brusque 
gesture,  in  the  presence  of  the  attendants,  who 
fled  howhng  with  fear,  he  raised  that  hand  which 
is  still  in  the  air,  and  which  he  has  not  deigned 
since  to  lower.  ^ And  subsequently  there  super- 
vened, beginning  in  the  old  yellowish-white 
hair,  and  then  swarming  over  the  whole  body, 
a hatching  of  cadaveric  fauna,  which  necessitated 
a complete  bath  in  mercury.  He  also  has  his 
paper  ticket,  pasted  on  the  end  of  his  box,  and 

^ This  movement  is  explained  by  the  action  of  the  sun,  which, 
falling  on  the  unclothed  arm,  is  supposed  to  have  expanded 
the  bone  of  the  elbow. 


5+  Egypt 

one  may  read  there,  written  in  a careless  hand, 
that  name  which  once  caused  the  whole  world 
to  tremble — “ Ramses  II.  (Sesostris)  ”!  It  need 
not  be  said  that  he  has  greatly  fallen  away  and 
blackened  even  in  the  fifteen  years  that  I have 
known  him.  He  is  a phantom  that  is  about  to 
disappear;  in  spite  of  all  the  care  lavished  upon 
him,  a poor  phantom  about  to  fall  to  pieces, 
to  sink  into  nothingness.  We  move  our  lantern 
about  his  hooked  nose,  the  better  to  decipher, 
in  the  play  of  shadow,  his  expression,  that  still 
remains  authoritative.  . . . To  think  that  once 
tlie  destinies  of  the  world  were  ruled,  without 
appeal,  by  the  nod  of  this  head,  which  looks 
now  somewhat  narrow,  under  the  dry  skin  and 
the  horrible  whitish  hair.  What  force  of  will, 
of  passion  and  colossal  pride  must  once  have 
dwelt  therein!  Not  to  mention  the  anxiety, 
which  to  us  now  is  scarcely  conceivable,  but 
which  in  his  time  OA'^ermastered  all  others — the 
anxiety,  that  is  to  say,  of  assuring  the  mag- 
nificence and  inviolability  of  sepulture!  . . . . 
And  this  horrible  scarecrow,  toothless  and  senile, 
lying  here  in  its  filthy  rags,  with  the  hand 
raised  in  an  impotent  menace,  was  once  the 
brilliant  Sesostris,  the  master  of  kings,  and  by 
virtue  of  his  strength  and  beauty  the  demigod 
also,  whose  muscular  limbs  and  deep  athletic 
chest  many  colossal  statues  at  Memphis,  at 


The  Hall  of  the  Mummies  55 

Thebes,  at  Luxor,  reproduce  and  try  to  make 
eternal.  . . . 

In  the  next  coffin  lies  his  father,  Seti  I.,  who 
reigned  for  a much  shorter  period,  and  died  much 
younger  than  he.  This  youthfulness  is  apparent 
still  in  the  features  of  the  mummy,  which  are 
impressed  besides  with  a persistent  beauty. 
Indeed  this  good  King  Seti  looks  the  picture  of 
calm  and  serene  reverie.  There  is  nothing 
shocking  in  his  dead  face,  with  its  long  closed 
eyes,  its  delicate  lips,  its  noble  chin  and  un- 
blemished profile.  It  is  soothing  and  pleasant 
even  to  see  him  sleeping  there  with  his  hands 
crossed  upon  his  breast.  And  it  seems  strange, 
that  he,  who  looks  so  young,  should  have  for 
son  the  old  man,  almost  a centenarian,  who  lies 
beside  him. 

In  our  passage  we  have  gazed  on  many 
other  royal  mummies,  some  tranquil  and  some 
grimacing.  But,  to  finish,  there  is  one  of  them 
(the  third  coffin  there,  in  the  row  in  front  of 
us),  a certain  Queen  Nsitanebashru,  whom  I 
approach  with  fear,  albeit  it  is  mainly  on  her 
account  that  I have  ventured  to  make  this 
fantastical  round.  Even  in  the  daytime  she 
attains  to  the  maximum  of  horror  that  a 
spectral  figure  can  evoke.  What  will  she  be 
like  to-night  in  the  uncertain  light  of  our  little 
lantern  ? 


56  Egypt 

There  she  is  indeed,  the  dishevelled  vampire, 
in  her  place  right  enough,  stretched  at  full 
length,  but  looking  always  as  if  she  were  about 
to  leap  up;  and  straightway  I meet  the  sidelong 
glance  of  her  enamelled  pupils,  shining  out  of 
half-closed  eyelids,  with  lashes  that  are  still  al- 
most perfect.  Oh!  the  terrifying  person!  Not 
that  she  is  ugly,  on  the  contrary  we  can  see 
that  she  was  rather  pretty  and  was  mummied 
young.  What  distinguishes  her  from  the  others 
is  her  air  of  thwarted  anger,  of  fury,  as  it  were, 
at  being  dead.  The  embalmers  have  coloured 
her  very  religiously,  but  the  pink,  under  the 
action  of  the  salts  of  the  skin,  has  become  de- 
composed here  and  there  and  given  place  to  a 
number  of  green  spots.  Her  naked  shoulders, 
the  height  of  the  arms  above  the  rags  which 
were  once  her  splendid  shroud,  have  still  a certain 
sleek  roundness,  but  they,  too,  are  stained  with 
greenish  and  black  splotches,  such  as  may  be  seen 
on  the  skins  of  snakes.  Assuredly  no  corpse, 
either  here  or  elsewhere,  has  ever  preserved  such 
an  expression  of  intense  life,  of  ironical,  im- 
placable ferocity.  Her  mouth  is  twisted  in  a 
little  smile  of  defiance;  her  nostrils  pinched  like 
those  of  a ghoul  on  the  scent  of  blood,  and  her 
eyes  seem  to  say  to  each  one  who  approaches: 
“ Yes,  I am  laid  in  my  coffin;  but  you  will  very 
soon  see  I can  get  out  of  it.”  There  is  some- 


The  Hall  of  the  Mummies  57 

thing  confusing  in  the  thought  that  the  menace 
of  this  terrible  expression,  and  this  appearance 
of  ill-restrained  ferocity  had  endured  for  some 
hundreds  of  years  before  the  commencement  of 
our  era,  and  endured  to  no  purpose  in  the  secret 
darkness  of  a closed  coffin  at  the  bottom  of  some 
doorless  vault. 

Now  that  we  are  about  to  retire,  what  will 
happen  here,  with  the  complicity  of  silence,  in 
the  darkest  hours  of  the  night?  Will  they  re- 
main inert  and  rigid,  all  these  embalmed  bodies, 
once  left  to  themselves,  who  pretended  to  be  so 
quiet  because  we  were  there?  What  exchanges 
of  old  human  fluid  will  recommence,  as  who  can 
doubt  they  do  each  night  between  one  coffin  and 
another.  Formerly  these  kings  and  queens,  in 
their  anxiety  as  to  the  future  of  their  mummy, 
had  foreseen  violation,  pillage  and  scattering 
amongst  the  sands  of  the  desert,  but  never  this; 
that  they  would  be  reunited  one  day,  almost  all 
unveiled,  so  near  to  one  another  under  panes  of 
glass.  Those  who  governed  Egypt  in  the  lost 
centuries  and  were  never  known  except  by 
history,  by  the  papyri  inscribed  with  hieroglyph- 
ics, brought  thus  together,  how  many  things 
will  they  have  to  say  to  one  another,  how  many 
ardent  questions  to  ask  about  their  loves,  about 
their  crimes ! As  soon  as  we  shall  have  departed, 
nay,  as  soon  as  our  lantern,  at  the  end  of  the 


58  Egypt 

long  galleries,  shall  seem  no  more  than  a foolish, 
vanishing  spot  of  fire,  will  not  the  “ forms,”  of 
whom  the  attendants  are  so  afraid,  will  they 
not  start  their  nightly  rumblings  and  in  their 
hollow  mmnmy  voices,  whisj)er,  with  difficulty, 
words?  . . . 

Heavens!  How  dark  it  is!  Yet  our  lantern 
has  not  gone  out.  But  it  seems  to  grow  darker 
and  darker.  And  at  night,  when  all  is  shut  up, 
how  one  smells  the  odour  of  the  oils  in  which 
the  shrouds  are  saturated,  and,  more  intolerable 
still,  the  sickly  stealthy  stench,  almost,  of  all  these 
dead  bodies!  . . . 

As  I traverse  the  obscurity  of  these  endless 
halls,  a vague  instinct  of  self-preservation  induces 
me  to  turn  back  again,  and  look  behind.  And 
it  seems  to  me  that  already  the  woman  with  the 
baby  is  slowly  raising  herself,  with  a thousand 
precautions  and  stratagems,  her  head  still  com- 
pletely covered.  While  farther  down,  that  dis- 
hevelled hair.  . . . Oh!  I can  see  her  well,  sitting 
up  with  a sudden  jerk,  the  ghoul  with  the  enamel 
eyes,  the  lady  Nsitanebashru! 


A CENTRE  OF  ISLAM 


CHAPTER  V 


A CENTRE  OF  ISLAM 

“ To  learn  is  the  duty  of  everj’  Moslem.” 

Verse  from  the  Hadith  or  Words  of  the  Prophet. 

In  a narrow  street,  hidden  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  ancient  Arab  quarters  of  Cairo,  in  the  very 
heart  of  a close  labyrinth  mysteriously  shady, 
an  exquisite  doorway  opens  into  a wide  space 
bathed  in  sunshine;  a doorway  formed  of  two 
elaborate  arches,  and  surmounted  by  a high 
frontal  on  which  intertwined  arabesques  form 
wonderful  rosework,  and  holy  writings  are 
enscrolled  with  the  most  ingenious  complica- 
tions. 

It  is  the  entrance  to  El-Azhar,  a venerable 
place  in  Islam,  whence  have  issued  for  nearly  a 
thousand  years  the  generations  of  priests  and 
doctors  charged  with  the  propagation  of  the 
word  of  the  Prophet  amongst  the  nations,  from 
the  Mohreb  to  the  Arabian  Sea,  passing  through 
the  great  deserts.  About  the  end  of  our  tenth 
century  the  glorious  Fatimee  Caliphs  built  this 
immense  assemblage  of  arches  and  columns, 
which  became  the  seat  of  the  most  renowned 

6i 


62  Egypt 

Moslem  university  in  the  world.  And  since 
then  successive  sovereigns  of  Egypt  have  vied 
with  one  another  in  perfecting  and  enlarging  it; 
adding  new  halls,  new  galleries,  new  minarets, 
till  they  have  made  of  El-Azhar  almost  a town 
within  a town. 


“ He  who  seeks  instruction  is  more  loved  of  God  than  he 
who  fights  in  a holy  war.” 

A verse  from  the  Hadith. 

Eleven  o’clock  on  a day  of  burning  sunshine 
and  dazzling  light.  El-Azhar  still  vibrates  with 
the  murmur  of  many  voices,  although  the  lessons 
of  the  morning  are  nearly  finished. 

Once  past  the  threshold  of  the  double  or- 
namented door  we  enter  the  courtyard,  at  this 
moment  empty  as  the  desert  and  dazzling  with 
sunshine.  Beyond,  quite  open,  the  mosque 
spreads  out  its  endless  arcades,  which  are  con- 
tinued and  repeated  till  they  are  lost  in  the 
gloom  of  the  far  interior,  and  in  this  dim  place, 
with  its  perplexing  depths,  innumerable  people 
in  turbans,  sitting  in  a close  crowd,  are  singing, 
or  rather  chanting,  in  a low  voice,  and  marking 
time  as  it  were  to  their  declamation  by  a slight 
rhythmic  swaying  from  the  hips.  They  are  the 
ten  thousand  students  come  from  all  parts  of 
the  world  to  absorb  the  changeless  doctrine  of 
El-Azhar. 


A Centre  of  Islam  63 

At  the  first  view  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish 
them,  for  they  are  far  down  in  the  shadow,  and 
out  here  we  are  almost  blinded  by  the  sun.  In 
little  attentive  groups  of  from  ten  to  twenty, 
seated  on  mats  around  a grave  professor,  they 
docilely  repeat  their  lessons,  which  in  the  course 
of  centuries  have  grown  old  without  changing 
like  Islam  itself.  And  we  wonder  how  those  in 
the  circles  down  there,  in  the  aisles  at  the  bottom 
where  the  daylight  scarcely  penetrates,  can  see 
to  read  the  old  difficult  writings  in  the  pages  of 
their  books. 

In  any  case,  let  us  not  trouble  them — as  so 
many  tourists  nowadays  do  not  hesitate  to  do; 
we  will  enter  a little  later,  when  the  studies  of 
the  morning  are  over. 

This  court,  upon  which  the  sun  of  the  fore- 
noon now  pours  its  white  fire,  is  an  enclosure 
severely  and  magnificently  Arab;  it  has  isolated 
us  suddenly  from  time  and  things;  it  must  lend 
to  the  Moslem  prayer  what  formerly  our  Gothic 
churches  lent  to  the  Christian.  It  is  vast  as  a 
tournament  list;  confined  on  one  side  by  the 
mosque  itself,  and  on  the  others  by  a high  wall 
which  effectively  separates  it  from  the  outer 
world.  The  walls  are  of  a reddish  hue,  burnt  by 
centuries  of  sun  into  the  colour  of  raw  sienna  or 
of  bloodstone.  At  the  bottom  they  are  straight, 
simple,  a little  forbidding  in  their  austerity,  but 


6+  Egypt 

their  summits  are  elaborately  ornamented  and 
crowned  with  battlements,  which  show  in  profile 
against  the  sky  a long  series  of  denticulated 
stonework.  And  over  this  sort  of  reddish  fret- 
work of  the  top,  which  seems  as  if  it  were  there 
as  a frame  to  the  deep  blue  vault  above  us,  we 
see  rising  up  distractedly  all  the  minarets  of  the 
neighbourhood;  and  these  minarets  are  red- 
coloured  too,  redder  even  than  the  jealous  walls, 
and  are  decorated  with  arabesques,  pierced  by 
the  daylight  and  complicated  with  aerial  gal- 
leries. Some  of  them  are  a little  distance 
away;  others,  startlingly  close,  seem  to  scale  the 
zenith;  and  all  are  ravishing  and  strange,  with 
their  shining  crescents  and  outstretched  shafts 
of  wood  that  call  to  the  great  birds  of  space. 
Spite  of  ourselves  we  raise  our  heads,  fascinated 
by  all  the  beauty  that  is  in  the  air;  but  there 
is  only  this  square  of  marvellous  sky,  a sort 
of  limpid  sapphire,  set  in  the  battlements  of 
El  - Azhar  and  fringed  by  those  audacious 
slender  towers.  We  are  in  the  religious  East 
of  olden  days  and  we  feel  how  the  mystery 
of  this  magnificent  court — whose  architectural 
ornament  consists  merely  in  geometrical  de- 
signs repeated  to  infinity,  and  does  not  com- 
mence till  quite  high  up  on  the  battlements, 
where  the  minarets  point  into  the  eternal  blue 
— must  cast  its  spell  upon  the  imagination 


A Centre  of  Islam  65 

of  the  young  priests  who  are  being  trained 
here. 


“He  who  instructs  the  ignorant  is  like  a living  man  amongst 
the  dead.” 

“If  a day  pas.ses  without  my  having  learnt  something  which 
brings  me  nearer  to  God,  let  not  the  dawn  of  that  day  be  blessed.” 

Verses  from  the  Hadith. 

He  who  has  brought  me  to  this  place  to-day 
is  my  friend,  Mustapha  Kamel  Pacha,^  the 
tribune  of  Egypt,  and  I owe  to  his  presence  the 
fact  that  I am  not  treated  like  a casual  visitor. 
Our  names  are  taken  at  once  to  the  great  master 
of  El-Azhar,  a high  personage  in  Islam,  whose 
pupil  Mustapha  formerly  was,  and  who  no  doubt 
will  receive  us  in  person. 

It  is  in  a hall  very  Arab  in  its  character, 
furnished  only  with  divans,  that  the  great  master 
welcomes  us,  with  the  simplicity  of  an  ascetic 
and  the  elegant  manners  of  a prelate.  His  look, 
and  indeed  his  whole  face,  tell  how  onerous  is 
the  sacred  office  which  he  exercises:  to  preside, 
namely,  at  the  instruction  of  these  thousands  of 
young  priests,  who  afterwards  are  to  carry  faith 
and  peace  and  immobility  to  more  than  three 
hundred  millions  of  men. 

And  in  a few  moments  Mustapha  and  he  are 

^ This  happened  a year  before  the  death  of  the  pacha  to  whom 
this  book  is  dedicated. — Author's  Note. 


66 

busy  discussing — as  if  it  were  a matter  of  actual 
interest — a controversial  question  concerning  the 
events  which  followed  the  death  of  the  Prophet, 
and  the  part  played  by  Ali.  ...  In  that  mo- 
ment how  my  good  friend  Mustapha,  whom  I 
had  seen  so  French  in  France,  appeared  all  at 
once  a Moslem  to  the  bottom  of  his  soul!  The 
same  thing  is  true  indeed  of  the  greater  num- 
ber of  these  Orientals,  who,  if  we  meet  them  in 
our  own  country,  seem  to  he  quite  parisianised ; 
their  modernity  is  only  on  the  surface:  in  their 
inmost  souls  Islam  remains  intact.  And  it  is 
not  difficult  to  understand,  perhaps,  how  the 
spectacle  of  our  troubles,  our  despairs,  our 
miseries,  in  these  new  ways  in  which  our  lot  is 
cast,  should  make  them  reflect  and  turn  again 
to  the  tranquil  dream  of  their  ancestors.  . . . 

While  waiting  for  the  conclusion  of  the  morn- 
ing studies,  we  are  conducted  through  some  of 
the  dependencies  of  El-Azhar.  Halls  of  every 
epoch,  added  one  to  another,  go  to  form  a little 
labyrinth;  many  contain  Mihrahs,  which,  as  we 
know  already,  are  a kind  of  portico,  festooned 
and  denticulated  till  they  look  as  if  covered  with 
rime.  And  library  after  library,  with  ceilings  of 
cedarwood,  carved  in  times  when  men  had  more 
leisure  and  more  patience.  Thousands  of  pre- 
cious manuscripts,  dating  back  some  hundreds  of 
years,  but  which  here  in  El-Azhar  are  no  whit 


A Centre  of  Islam  67 

out  of  date.  Open,  in  glass  cases,  are  numerous 
inestimable  Korans,  which  in  olden  times  had 
been  Avritten  fair  and  illuminated  on  parchment 
by  pious  khedives.  And,  in  a place  of  honour, 
a large  astronomical  glass,  through  Avhich  men 
watch  the  rising  of  the  moon  of  Ramadan.  . . . 
All  this  savours  of  the  past.  And  what  is  being 
taught  to-day  to  the  ten  thousand  students  of 
El-Azhar  scarcely  differs  from  what  was  taught 
to  their  predecessors  in  the  glorious  reign  of  the 
F atimites — and  which  was  then  transcendent  and 
even  new:  the  Koran  and  all  its  commentaries; 
the  subtleties  of  syntax  and  of  pronunciation; 
jurisprudence;  calligraphy,  which  still  is  dear  to 
the  heart  of  Orientals ; versification ; and,  last  of 
all,  mathematics,  of  which  the  Arabs  were  the 
inventors. 

Y es,  all  this  savours  of  the  past,  of  the  dust  of 
remote  ages.  And  though,  assuredly,  the  priests 
trained  in  this  thousand-year-old  university  may 
grow  to  men  of  rarest  soul,  they  will  remain, 
these  calm  and  noble  dreamers,  merely  laggards, 
safe  in  their  shelter  from  the  Avhirlwind  which 
carries  us  along. 

“It  is  a sacrilege  to  prohibit  knowledge.  To  seek  knowledge 
is  to  perform  an  act  of  adoration  towards  God;  to  instruct  is  to 
do  an  act  of  charity.” 

“Knowledge  is  the  life  of  Islam,  the  column  of  faith.” 

Verses  from  the  Hadith. 


68  Egypt 

The  lesson  of  the  morning  is  now  finished  and 
we  are  able,  without  disturbing  anybody,  to  visit 
the  mosque. 

When  we  return  to  the  great  courtyard,  with 
its  battlemented  walls,  it  is  the  hour  of  recrea- 
tion for  this  crowd  of  young  men  in  robes  and 
turbans,  who  now  emerge  from  the  shadow  of 
the . sanctuary. 

Since  the  early  morning  they  have  remained 
seated  on  their  mats,  immersed  in  study  and 
prayer,  amid  the  confused  buzzing  of  their  thou- 
sands of  voices;  and  now  they  scatter  themselves 
about  the  contiguous  Arab  quarters  until  such 
time  as  the  evening  lessons  commence.  They 
walk  along  in  little  groups,  sometimes  holding 
one  another’s  hands  hke  children;  most  of  them 
carry  their  heads  high  and  raise  their  eyes  to 
the  heavens,  although  the  sun  which  greets 
them  outside  dazzles  them  a little  with  its  rays. 
They  seem  innumerable,  and  as  they  pass  show 
us  faces  of  the  most  diverse  tyj^es.  They  come 
from  all  quarters  of  the  world;  some  from 
Baghdad,  others  from  Bassorah,  from  Mossul 
and  even  from  the  interior  of  Hedjaz.  Those 
from  the  north  have  eyes  that  are  bright  and 
clear;  and  amongst  those  from  Moghreb,  from 
Morocco  and  the  Sahara,  are  many  whose  skins 
are  almost  black.  But  the  expression  of  all  the 
faces  is  alike:  something  of  ecstasy  and  of  aloof- 


A Centre  of  Islam  69 

ness  marks  them  all;  the  same  detachment,  a 
preoccupation  Avith  the  self-same  dream.  And 
in  the  sky,  to  which  they  raise  their  eyes,  the 
heavens — framed  always  by  the  battlements  of 
El-Azhar — are  almost  white  from  the  excess  of 
light,  with  a border  of  tall,  red  minarets,  which 
seem  to  be  aglow  with  the  reflection  of  some 
great  fire.  And,  watching  them  pass,  all  these 
young  priests  or  jurists,  at  once  so  different  and 
so  alike,  we  understand  better  than  before  how 
Islam,  the  old,  old  Islam,  keeps  still  its  cohesion 
and  its  power. 

The  mosque  in  which  they  pursue  their  studies 
is  now  almost  empty.  In  its  restful  twilight 
there  is  silence,  and  the  unexpected  music  of 
little  birds;  it  is  the  brooding  season  and  the 
ceilings  of  carved  wood  are  full  of  nests,  which 
nobody  disturbs. 

A world,  this  mosque,  in  which  thousands  of 
people  could  easily  find  room.  Some  hundred 
and  fifty  marble  columns,  brought  from  ancient 
temples,  support  the  arches  of  the  seven  parallel 
aisles.  There  is  no  light  save  that  which  comes 
through  the  arcade  opening  into  the  courtyard, 
and  it  is  so  dark  in  the  aisles  at  the  far  end 
that  we  wonder  again  how  the  faithful  can  see 
to  read  when  the  sun  of  Egypt  happens  to  be 
veiled. 

Some  score  of  students,  who  seem  almost  lost 


I 


70  Egypt 

in  the  vast  solitude,  still  remain  during  the  hour 
of  rest,  and  are  busy  sweeping  the  floor  with  long 
palms  made  into  a kind  of  broom.  These  are 
the  j^oor  students,  whose  only  meal  is  of  dry 
bread,  and  who  at  night  stretch  themselves  to 
sleep  on  the  same  mat  on  which  they  have  sat 
studying  during  the  day. 

The  residence  at  the  university  is  free  to  all 
the  scholars,  the  cost  of  their  education  and 
maintenance  being  provided  by  pious  donations. 
But,  inasmuch  as  the  bequests  are  restricted 
according  to  nationality,  there  is  necessarily 
inequality  in  the  treatment  doled  out  to  the 
different  students:  thus  the  young  men  of  a given 
country  may  be  almost  rich,  possessing  a room 
and  a good  bed;  while  those  of  a neighbouring 
country  must  sleep  on  the  ground  and  have 
barely  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together. 
But  none  of  them  comjjlain,  and  they  know  how, 
to  help  one  another.^ 

Near  to  us,  one  of  these  needy  students  is 
eating,  without  any  false  shame,  his  midday 
meal  of  dry  bread;  and  he  welcomes  with  a 
smile  the  sparrows  and  the  other  little  winged 
thieves  who  come  to  dispute  with  him  the 
crumbs  of  his  repast.  And  farther  down,  in  the 
dimly  lighted  vaults  at  the  end,  is  one  who  dis- 
^ The  duration  of  the  studies  at  El-Azhar  varies  from  three 
to  six  years. 


A Centre  of  Islam  71 

dains  to  eat,  or  who,  maybe,  has  no  bread;  who, 
when  his  sweeping  is  done,  reseats  himself  on  his 
mat,  and,  opening  his  Koran,  commences  to  read 
aloud  with  the  customary  intonation.  His  voice, 
rich  and  facile,  and  moderated  with  discretion, 
has  a charm  that  is  irresistible  in  the  sonorous 
old  mosque,  where  at  this  hour  the  only  other 
sound  is  the  scarcely  perceptible  twittering  of  the 
little  broods  above,  among  the  dull  gold  beams  of 
the  ceiling.  Those  who  have  been  familiar  with 
the  sanctuaries  of  Islam  know,  as  well  as  I,  that 
there  is  no  book  so  exquisitely  rhythmical  as 
that  of  the  Prophet.  Even  if  the  sense  of  the 
verses  escape  you,  the  chanted  reading,  which 
forms  part  of  certain  of  the  offices,  acts  upon 
you  by  the  simple  magic  of  its  sounds,  in  the 
same  way  as  the  oratorios  which  draw  tears  in 
the  churches  of  Christ.  Rising  and  falling  like 
some  sad  lullaby,  the  declamation  of  this  young 
priest,  with  his  face  of  visionary,  and  garb  of 
decent  poverty,  swells  involuntarily,  till  gradu- 
ally it  seems  to  fill  the  seven  deserted  aisles  of 
El-Azhar. 

We  stop  in  spite  of  ourselves,  and  listen,  in 
the  midst  of  the  silence  of  midday.  And  in  this 
so  venerable  place,  where  dilapidation  and  the 
usury  of  centuries  are  revealed  on  every  side — 
even  on  the  marble  columns  worn  by  the  constant 
friction  of  hands — this  voice  of  gold  that  rises 


72  Egypt 

alone  seems  as  if  it  were  intoning  the  last  lament 
over  the  death-pang  of  Old  Islam  and  the  end  of 
time,  the  elegy,  as  it  were,  of  the  universal  death 
of  faith  in  the  heart  of  man, 

“Science  is  one  religion;  prayer  is  another.  Study  is  better 
than  worship.  Go;  seek  knowledge  everywhere,  if  needs  be, 
even  into  China.”  • Verses  from  the  Hadith. 

Amongst  us  Europeans  it  is  commonly  ac- 
cepted as  a proven  fact  that  Islam  is  merely  a 
religion  of  obscurantism,  bringing  in  its  train  the 
stagnation  of  nations,  and  hampering  them  in 
that  march  to  the  unknown  which  we  call  “ prog- 
ress.” But  such  an  attitude  shows  not  only  an 
absolute  ignorance  of  the  teaching  of  the  Prophet, 
but  a blind  forgetfulness  of  the  evidence  of  his- 
tory. The  Islam  of  the  earlier  centuries  evolved 
and  progressed  with  the  nations,  and  the  stimulus 
it  gave  to  men  in  the  reign  of  the  ancient  caliphs 
is  beyond  aU  question.  To  impute  to  it  the 
present  decadence  of  the  Moslem  world  is  al- 
together too  puerile.  The  truth  is  that  nations 
have  their  day;  and  to  a period  of  glorious 
splendour  succeeds  a time  of  lassitude  and 
slumber.  It  is  a law  of  nature.  And  then  one 
day  some  danger  threatens  them,  stirs  them  from 
their  torpor  and  they  awake. 

This  immobility  of  the  countries  of  the  Cres- 
cent was  once  dear  to  me.  If  the  end  is  to  pass 
through  life  with  the  minimum  of  suffering,  dis- 


A Centre  of  Islam  73 

daining  all  vain  striving,  and  to  die  entranced  by- 
radiant  hopes,  the  Orientals  are  the  only  wise 
men.  But  now  that  greedy  nations  beset  them  on 
all  sides  their  dreaming  is  no  longer  possible. 
They  must  awake,  alas. 

They  must  awake;  and  already  the  awakening 
is  at  hand.  Here,  in  Egypt,  where  the  need  is 
felt  to  change  so  many  things,  it  is  proposed,  too, 
to  reform  the  old  university  of  El-Azhar,  one  of 
the  chief  centres  of  Islam.  One  thinks  of  it  with 
a kind  of  fear,  knowing  what  danger  there  is  in 
laying  hands  upon  institutions  which  have  lasted 
for  a thousand  years.  Reform,  however,  has,  in 
principle,  been  decided  upon.  New  knowledge, 
brought  from  the  West,  is  penetrating  into  the 
tabernacle  of  the  Fatimites.  Has  not  the  Prophet 
said:  “Go;  seek  knowledge  far  and  wide,  if 
needs  be  even  into  China”?  What  will  come 
of  it?  Who  can  tell?  But  this,  at  least,  is 
certain:  that  in  the  dazzling  hours  of  noon,  or 
in  the  golden  hours  of  evening,  when  the  crowd 
of  these  modernised  students  spreads  itself  over 
the  vast  courtyard,  overlooked  by  its  countless 
minarets,  there  will  no  longer  be  seen  in  their 
eyes  the  mystic  light  of  to-day;  and  it  will  no 
longer  be  the  old  unshakable  faith,  nor  the  lofty 
and  serene  indifference,  nor  the  profound  peace, 
that  these  messengers  will  carry  to  the  ends  of 
the  Mussulman  earth.  . . . 


'i 


IN  THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  APIS 


CHAPTER  VI 


IN  THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  APIS 

The  dwelling  places  of  the  Apis,  in  the  grim 
darkness  beneath  the  Memphite  desert,  are,  as 
all  the  world  knows,  monster  coffins  of  black 
granite  ranged  in  catacombs,  hot  and  stifling  as 
eternal  stoves. 

To  reach  them  from  the  banks  of  the  Nile  we 
have  first  to  traverse  the  low  region  which  the  in- 
undations of  the  ancient  river,  regularly  repeated 
since  the  beginning  of  time,  have  rendered  pro- 
pitious to  the  growth  of  plants  and  to  the  devel- 
opment of  men;  an  hour  or  two’s  journey,  this 
evening  through  forests  of  date-trees  whose  beau- 
tiful palms  temper  the  light  of  the  March  sun, 
which  is  now  halfveiled  in  clouds  and  already 
declining.  In  the  distance  herds  are  grazing  in 
the  cool  shade.  And  we  meet  fellahs  leading  back 
from  the  field  towards  the  village  on  the  river- 
bank  their  little  donkeys,  laden  with  sheaves  of 
corn.  The  air  is  mild  and  wholesome  under  the 
high  tufts  of  these  endless  green  plumes,  which 
move  in  the  warm  wind  almost  without  noise.  We 
seem  to  be  in  some  happy  land,  where  the  pastoral 
life  should  be  easy,  and  even  a little  paradisaical. 
77 


78  Egypt 

But  beyond,  in  front  of  us,  quite  a different 
world  is  gradually  revealed.  Its  aspect  assumes 
the  importance  of  a menace  from  the  unknown; 
it  awes  us  like  an  apparition  of  chaos,  of  universal 
death.  ...  It  is  the  desert,  the  conquering  des- 
ert, in  the  midst  of  which  inhabited  Egypt, 
the  green  valleys  of  the  Nile,  trace  merely  a 
narrow  ribbon.  And  here,  more  than  elsewhere, 
the  sight  of  this  sovereign  desert  rising  up  before 
us  is  startling  and  thrilhng,  so  high  up  it  seems, 
and  we  so  low  in  the  Edenlike  valley  shaded  by 
the  palms.  With  its  yellow  hues,  its  livid  mar- 
blings,  and  its  sands  which  make  it  look  some- 
how as  if  it  lacked  consistency,  it  rises  on  the 
whole  horizon  like  a kind  of  soft  wall  or  a great 
fearsome  cloud — or  rather,  like  a long  cataclysmic 
wave,  which  does  not  move  indeed,  but  which,  if 
it  did,  would  overwhelm  and  swallow  everything. 
It  is  the  Memphite  desert — a place,  that  is  to 
say,  such  as  does  not  exist  elsewhere  on  earth;  a 
fabulous  necropolis,  in  which  men  of  earlier  times, 
heaped  up  for  some  three  thousand  years  the 
embalmed  bodies  of  their  dead,  exaggerating,  as 
time  went  on,  the  foolish  grandeur  of  their  tombs. 
Now,  above  the  sand  which  looks  like  the  front 
of  some  great  tidal  wave  arrested  in  its  progress, 
we  see  on  all  sides,  and  far  into  the  distance, 
triangles  of  superhuman  proportions  which  were 
once  the  tombs  of  mummies;  pyramids,  still 


In  the  Tombs  of  the  Apis  79 

upright,  all  of  them,  on  their  sinister  pedestal 
of  sand.  Some  are  comparatively  near;  others 
almost  lost  in  the  background  of  the  solitudes 
— and  perhaps  more  awesome  in  that  they  are 
merely  outlined  in  grey,  high  up  among  the 
clouds. 

• •••••• 

The  little  carriages  that  have  brought  us  to  the 
necropolis  of  Memphis,  through  the  interminable 
forest  of  palm-trees,  had  their  wheels  fitted  with 
large  pattens  for  their  journey  over  the  sand. 

Now,  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  fearsome 
region,  we  commence  to  climb  a hill  where  all 
at  once  the  trot  of  our  horses  ceases  to  be  heard ; 
the  moving  felting  of  the  soil  establishes  a sudden 
silence  around  us,  as  indeed  is  always  the  case 
when  we  reach  these  sands.  It  seems  as  if  it 
were  a silence  of  respect  which  the  desert  itself 
imposes. 

The  valley  of  life  sinks  and  fades  behind  us, 
until  at  last  it  disappears,  hidden  by  a line  of 
sandhills — the  first  wave,  as  one  might  say,  of 
this  waterless  sea — and  we  are  now  mounted  into 
the  kingdom  of  the  dead,  swept  at  this  moment 
by  a withering  and  almost  icy  wind,  which  from 
below  one  would  not  have  expected. 

This  desert  of  Memphis  has  not  yet  been  pro- 
faned by  hotels  or  motor  roads,  such  as  we  have 
seen  in  the  “ little  desert  ” of  the  Sphinx — whose 


8o  Egypt 

three  pyramids  indeed  we  can  discern  at  the  ex- 
treme limit  of  the  view,  prolonging  almost  to  in- 
finity for  our  eyes  this  domain  of  mummies. 
There  is  nobody  to  be  seen,  nor  any  indication 
of  the  present  day,  amongst  these  mournful  un- 
dulations of  yellow  or  pale  grey  sand,  in  which  we 
seem  lost  as  in  the  swell  of  an  ocean.  The  sky 
is  cloudy — such  as  you  can  scarcely  imagine  the 
sky  of  Egypt.  And  in  this  immense  nothingness 
of  sand  and  stones,  which  stands  out  now  more 
clearly  against  the  clouds  on  the  horizon,  there  is 
nothing  anywhere  save  the  silhouettes  of  those 
eternal  triangles:  the  pyramids,  gigantic  things 
which  rise  here  and  there  at  hazard,  some  half  in 
ruin,  others  almost  intact  and  preserving  still 
their  sharp  point.  To-day  they  are  the  only 
landmarks  of  this  necropolis,  which  is  nearly  six 
miles  in  length,  and  was  formerly  covered  by 
temples  of  a magnificence  and  a vastness  un- 
imaginable to  the  minds  of  our  day.  Except  for 
one  which  is  quite  near  us  (the  fantastic  grand- 
father of  the  others,  that  of  King  Zoser,  who 
died  nearly  5000  years  ago),  except  for  this  one, 
which  is  made  of  six  colossal  superposed  terraces, 
they  are  all  built  after  that  same  conception  of 
the  Triangle,  which  is  at  once  the  most  mysteri- 
ously simple  figure  of  geometry,'  and  the  strong- 
est and  most  permanently  stable  form  of  archi- 
tecture. And  now  that  there  remains  no  trace  of 


In  the  Tombs  of  the  Apis  8i 

the  frescoed  portraits  which  used  to  adorn  them, 
nor  of  their  multicoloured  coatings,  now  that 
they  have  taken  on  the  same  dead  colour  as  the 
desert,  they  look  like  the  huge  bones  of  giant 
fossils,  that  have  long  outlasted  their  other  con- 
temporaries on  earth.  Beneath  the  ground,  how- 
ever, the  case  is  different;  there,  still  remain  the 
bodies  of  men,  and  even  of  cats  and  birds,  who 
with  their  own  eyes  saw  these  vast  structures 
building,  and  who  sleep  intact,  swathed  in  band- 
! ages,  in  the  darkness  of  their  tunnels.  TV e know, 

for  we  have  penetrated  there  before,  what  things 
are  hidden  in  the  womb  of  this  old  desert,  on 
which . the  yellow  shroud  of  the  sand  grows 
thicker  and  thicker  as  the  centuries  pass.  The 
whole  deep  rock  has  been  perforated  patiently 
I to  make  hypogea  and  sepulchral  chambers,  great 

and  small,  and  veritable  palaces  for  the  dead,- 
I adorned  with  innumerable  painted  figures.  And 

though  now,  for  some  two  thousand  years,  men 
jj  have  set  themselves  furiously  to  exhume  the 

* sarcophagi  and  the  treasures  that  are  buried  here, 

I the  subterranean  reserves  are  not  yet  exhausted. 

There  still  remain,  no  doubt,  pleiads  of  undis- 
j turbed  sleepers,  who  will  never  be  discovered. 

As  we  advance  the  wind  grows  stronger  and 
colder  beneath  a sky  that  becomes  increasingly 
cloudy,  and  the  sand  is  flying  on  all  sides.  The 
sand  is  the  undisputed  sovereign  of  this  necrop- 


82 

olis;  if  it  does  not  surge  and  roll  like  some 
enormous  tidal  wave,  as  it  appears  to  do  when 
seen  from  the  green  valley  below,  it  nevertheless 
covers  everything  with  an  obstinate  persistence 
which  has  continued  since  the  beginning  of  time. 
Already  at  INIemphis  it  has  buried  innumerable 
statues  and  colossi  and  temples  of  the  Sphinx. 
It  comes  without  a pause,  from  Libya,  from  the 
Great  Sahara,  which  contain  enough  to  powder 
the  universe.  It  harmonises  well  with  the  tall 
skeletons  of  the  pyramids,  which  form  immut- 
able rocks  on  its  always  shifting  extent;  and  if 
one  thinks  of  it,  it  gives  a more  thrilling  sense  of 
anterior  eternities  even  than  all  these  Egyptian 
ruins,  which,  in  comparison  with  it,  are  things  of 
yesterday.  The  sand — the  sand  of  the  primi- 
tive seas — which  represents  a labour  of  erosion 
of  a duration  impossible  to  conceive,  and  bears 
witness  to  a continuity  of  destruction  which,  one 
might  say,  had  no  beginning. 

Here,  in  the  midst  of  these  solitudes,  is  a 
humble  habitation,  old  and  half  buried  in  sand, 
at  which  we  have  to  stop.  It  was  once  the 
house  of  the  Egyptologist  INIariette,  and  still 
shelters  the  director  of  the  excavations,  from 
whom  we  have  to  obtain  permission  to  descend 
amongst  the  Apis.  Tlie  whitewashed  room  in 
which  he  receives  us  is  encumbered  with  the 
age-old  debris  which  he  is  continually  bringing 


In  the  Tombs  of  the  Apis  83 

to  light.  The  parting  rays  of  the  sun,  which 
shines  low  down  from  between  two  clouds,  enter 
through  a window  opening  on  to  the  surrounding 
desolation;  and  the  light  comes  mournfully,  yel- 
lowed by  the  sand  and  the  evening. 

The  master  of  the  house,  while  his  Bedouin 
servants  are  gone  to  open  and  light  up  for  us 
the  underground  habitations  of  the  Apis,  shows 
us  his  latest  astonishing  find,  made  this  morning 
in  a hypogeum  of  one  of  the  most  ancient 
dynasties.  It  is  there  on  a table,  a group  of 
little  people  of  wood,  of  the  size  of  the  marion- 
ettes of  our  theatres.  And  since  it  was  the 
custom  to  put  in  a tomb  only  those  figures  or 
objects  which  were  most  pleasing  to  him  who 
dwelt  in  it,  the  man-mummy  to  whom  this 
toy  was  offered  in  times  anterior  to  all  precise 
chronology  must  have  been  extremely  partial  to 
dancing-girls.  In  the  middle  of  the  group  the 
man  himself  is  represented,  sitting  in  an  arm- 
chair, and  on  his  knee  he  holds  his  favourite 
dancing-girl.  Other  girls  posture  before  him 
in  a dance  of  the  period;  and  on  the  ground  sit 
musicians  touching  tambourines  and  strangely 
fashioned  harps.  All  wear  their  hair  in  a long 
plait,  which  falls  below  their  shoulders  like  the 
pigtail  of  the  Chinese.  It  was  the  distinguishing 
mark  of  these  kinds  of  courtesans.  And  these 
little  people  had  kept  their  pose  in  the  darkness 


8+  Egypt 

for  some  three  thousand  years  before  the  com- 
mencement of  the  Christian  era.  ...  In  order  to 
show  it  to  us  better  the  group  is  brought  to  the 
window,  and  the  mournful  light  which  enters 
from  across  the  infinite  solitudes  of  the  desert 
colours  them  yellow  and  shows  us  in  detail  their 
little  doll-like  attitudes  and  their  comical  and 
frightened  appearance — frightened  perhaps  to 
find  themselves  so  old  and  issuing  from  so  deep  a 
night.  They  had  not  seen  a setting  of  the  sun, 
such  as  they  now  regard  with  their  queer  eyes, 
too  long  and  too  wide  open,  they  had  not  seen 
such  a thing  for  some  five  thousand  years.  . . . 

The  habitation  of  the  Apis,  the  lords  of  the 
necropolis,  is  little  more  than  two  hundred  yards 
away.  We  are  told  that  the  place  is  now  lighted 
up  and  that  we  may  betake  ourselves  thither. 

The  descent  is  by  a narrow,  rapidly  sloping 
passage,  dug  in  the  soil,  between  banks  of  sand 
and  broken  stones.  We  are  now  completely 
sheltered  from  the  bitter  wind  which  blows 
across  the  desert,  and  from  the  dark  doorway 
that  opens  before  us  comes  a breath  of  air  as 
from  an  oven.  It  is  always  dry  and  hot  in  the 
underground  funeral  places  of  Egypt,  which 
make  indeed  admirable  stoves  for  mummies. 
The  threshold  once  crossed  we 'are  plunged  first 
of  all  in  darkness  and,  preceded  by  a lantern, 
make  our  way,  by  devious  turnings,  over  large 


In  the  Tombs  of  the  Apis  85 

flagstones,  passing  obelisks,  fallen  blocks  of  stone 
and  other  gigantic  debris,  in  a heat  that  con- 
tinually increases. 

At  last  the  principal  artery  of  the  hypogeum 
appears,  a thoroughfare  more  than  five  hundred 
yards  long,  cut  in  the  rock,  where  the  Bedouins 
have  prepared  for  us  the  customary  feeble 
light. 

It  is  a place  of  fearful  aspect.  As  soon  as  one 
enters  one  is  seized  by  the  sense  of  a mourn- 
fulness beyond  words,  by  an  oppression  as  of 
something  too  heavy,  too  crushing,  almost  super- 
human. The  impotent  little  flames  of  the  can- 
dles, placed  in  a row,  in  groups  of  fifty,  on  tri- 
pods of  wood  from  one  end  of  the  route  to  the 
other,  show  on  the  right  and  left  of  the  im- 
mense avenue  rectangular  sepulchral  caverns, 
containing  each  a black  coffin,  but  a coffin  as 
if  for  a mastodon.  And  all  these  coffins,  so 
sombre  and  so  alike,  are  square  shaped  too,  se- 
verely simple  like  so  many  boxes;  but  made  out 
of  a single  block  of  rare  granite  that  gleams 
like  marble.  They  are  entirely  without  orna- 
ment. It  is  necessary  to  look  closely  to  dis- 
tinguish on  the  smooth  walls  the  hieroglyphic 
inscriptions,  the  rows  of  little  figures,  little  owls, 
little  jackals,  that  tell  in  a lost  language  the  his- 
tory of  ancient  peoples.  Here  is  the  signature 
of  King  Amasis;  beyond,  that  of  King  Cam- 


86 


Egypt 

byses.  . . . Who  were  the  Titans  who,  century 
after  century,  were  able  to  hew  these  coffins  (they 
are  at  least  twelve  feet  long  by  ten  feet  high), 
and,  having  hewn  them,  to  carry  them  under- 
ground (they  weigh  on  an  average  between  sixty 
and  seventy  tons),  and  finally  to  range  them  in 
rows  here  in  these  strange  chambers,  where  they 
stand  as  if  in  ambuscade  on  either  side  of  us  as  we 
pass?  Each  in  its  turn  has  contained  quite  com- 
fortably the  mummy  of  a bull  Apis,  armoured  in 
plates  of  gold.  But  in  spite  of  their  weight,  in 
spite  of  their  solidity  which  effectively  defies 
destruction,  they  have  been  despoiled  ^ — when  is 
not  precisely  known,  probably  by  the  soldiers  of 
the  King  of  Persia.  And  this  notwithstanding 
that  merely  to  open  them  represents  a labour 
of  astonishing  strength  and  patience.  In  some 
cases  the  thieves  have  succeeded,  by  the  aid  of 
levers,  in  moving  a few  inches  the  formidable 
lid ; in  others,  by  persevering  with  blows  of 
pickaxes,  they  have  pierced,  in  the  thickness  of 
the  granite,  a hole  through  which  a man  has  been 
enabled  to  crawl  like  a rat,  or  a worm,  and 

^ One,  however,  remains  intact  in  its  walled  cavern,  and 
thus  preserves  for  us  the  only  Apis  which  has  come  down  to 
our  days.  And  one  recalls  the  emotion  of  Mariette,  when,  on 
entering  it,  he  saw  on  the  sandy  ground  the  imprint  of  the 
naked  feet  of  the  last  Egyptian  who  left  it  thirty-seven  cen- 
turies before. 


In  the  Tombs  of  the  Apis  87 

then,  groping  his  way,  to  plunder  the  sacred 
mummy. 

What  strikes  us  most  of  all  in  the  colossal 
hypogeum  is  the  meeting  there,  in  the  middle 
of  the  stairway  by  which  we  leave,  with  yet 
another  black  coffin,  which  lies  across  our  path 
as  if  to  bar  it.  It  is  as  monstrous  and  as  simple 
as  the  others,  its  seniors,  which  many  centuries 
before,  as  the  deified  bulls  died,  had  commenced 
to  line  the  great  straight  thoroughfare.  But  this 
one  has  never  reached  its  place  and  never  held 
its  mummy.  It  was  the  last.  Even  while  men 
were  slowly  rolling  it,  with  tense  muscles  and 
panting  cries,  towards  what  might  well  have 
seemed  its  eternal  chamber,  other  gods  were 
born,  and  the  cult  of  the  Apis  had  come  to  an 
end — suddenly,  then  and  there ! Such  a fate  may 
happen  indeed  to  each  and  all  of  the  religions 
and  institutions  of  men,  even  to  those  most 
deeply  rooted  in  their  hearts  and  their  ancestral 
past.  . . . That  perhaps  is  the  most  disturbing 
of  all  our  positive  notions:  to  know  that  there 
will  be  a last  of  all  things,  not  only  a last  temple, 
and  a last  priest,  but  a last  birth  of  a human 
child,  a last  sunrise,  a last  day.  . . . 

• •••••• 

In  these  hot  catacombs  we  had  forgotten  the 
cold  wind  that  blew  outside,  and  the  physiog- 
nomy of  the  Memphite  desert,  the  aspects  of 


88 


Egypt 

horror  that  were  awaiting  us  above  had  vanished 
from  our  mind.  Sinister  as  it  is  under  a blue 
sky,  this  desert  beeomes  absolutely  intolerable  to 
look  upon  if  by  chance  the  sky  is  cloudy  when 
the  daylight  fails. 

On  our  return  to  it,  from  the  subterranean 
darkness,  everything  in  its  dead  immensity  has 
begun  to  take  on  the  blue  tint  of  the  night.  On 
the  top  of  the  sandhills,  of  which  the  yellow 
colour  has  greatly  paled  since  we  went  below, 
the  wind  amuses  itself  by  raising  little  vortices  of 
sand  that  imitate  the  spray  of  an  angry  sea.  On 
all  sides  dark  clouds  stretch  themselves  as  at  the 
moment  of  our  descent.  The  horizon  detaches 
itself  more  and  more  clearly  from  them,  and, 
farther  towards  the  east,  it  actually  seems  to  be 
tilted  up;  one  of  the  highest  of  the  waves  of 
this  waterless  sea,  a mountain  of  sand  whose 
soft  contours  are  deceptive  in  the  distance, 
makes  it  look  as  if  it  sloped  towards  us,  so  as 
almost  to  produce  a sensation  of  vertigo.  The 
sun  itself  has  deigned  to  remain  on  the  scene  a 
few  seconds  longer,  held  beyond  its  time  by  the 
effect  of  mirage;  but  it  is  so  changed  behind  its 
thick  veils  that  we  would  prefer  that  it  should 
not  be  there.  Of  the  colour  of  dying  embers,  it 
seems  too  near  and  too  large  ^ it  has  ceased  to 
give  any  light,  and  is  become  a mere  rose- 
coloured  globe,  that  is  losing  its  shape  and 


In  the  Tombs  of  the  Apis  89 

becoming  oval.  No  longer  in  the  free  heavens, 
but  stranded  there  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the 
desert,  it  watches  the  scene  like  a large  dull  eye, 
about  to  close  itself  in  death.  And  the  mysteri- 
ous superhuman  triangles,  they  too,  of  course, 
are  there,  waiting  for  us  on  our  return  from  un- 
derground, some  near,  some  far,  posted  in  their 
eternal  places ; but  surely  they  have  grown 
larger  in  the  twilight,  which  grows  gradually 
more  blue.  . . . 

Such  a night,  in  such  a place,  it  seems  the 
last  night. 


I 


THE  OUTSKIRTS 
OF  CAIRO 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  OUTSKIRTS  OF  CAIRO 

Night.  A long  straight  road,  the  artery  of 
some  capital,  through  which  our  carriage  drives 
at  a fast  trot,  making  a deafening  clatter  on  the 
pavement.  Electric  light  everywhere.  The  shops 
are  closing ; it  must  needs  be  late. 

The  road  is  Levantine  in  its  general  character : 
and  we  should  have  no  clear  notion  of  the  place 
did  we  not  see  in  our  rapid,  noisy  passage 
signs  that  recall  us  to  the  land  of  the  Arabs. 
People  pass  dressed  in  the  long  robe  and  tar- 
boosh of  the  East;  and  some  of  the  houses, 
above  the  European  shops,  are  ornamented 
with  mushrabiyas.  But  this  blinding  electricity 
strikes  a false  note.  In  our  hearts  are  we  quite 
sure  we  are  in  the  East? 

The  road  ends,  opening  on  to  darkness. 
Suddenly,  without  any  warning,  it  abuts  upon 
a void  in  which  the  eyes  see  nothing,  and  we 
roll  over  a yielding,  felted  soil,  where  all  noise 
abruptly  ceases — it  is  the  desert!  ...  Not  a 
vague,  nondescript  stretch  of  country  such  as 
in  the  outskirts  of  our  towns,  not  one  of  the 
solitudes  of  Europe,  but  the  threshold  of  the 
93 


9+  Egypt 

vast  desolations  of  Arabia.  The  desert;  and, 
even  if  we  had  not  known  that  it  was  awaiting 
us,  we  should  have  recognised  it  by  its  in- 
describable quality  of  harshness  and  uniqueness 
which,  in  spite  of  the  darkness,  cannot  be 
mistaken. 

But  the  night  after  all  is  not  so  black.  It 
only  seemed  so,  at  the  first  moment,  by  con- 
trast with  the  glaring  illumination  of  the  street. 
In  reality  it  is  transparent  and  blue.  A half- 
moon, high  up  in  the  heavens,  and  veiled  by 
a diaphanous  mist,  shines  gently,  and  as  it  is 
an  Egyptian  moon,  more  subtle  than  ours,  it 
leaves  to  things  a little  of  their  colour.  We  can 
see  now,  as  well  as  feel,  this  desert,  which  has 
opened  and  imposed  its  silence  upon  us.  Before 
us  is  the  paleness  of  its  sands  and  the  reddish- 
brown  of  its  dead  rocks.  Verily,  in  no  country 
but  Egypt  are  there  such  rapid  surprises:  to 
issue  from  a street  flanked  by  shops  and  stalls 
and,  without  transition,  to  find  this!  . . . 

Our  horses  have,  inevitably,  to  slacken  speed 
as  the  wheels  of  our  carriage  sink  into  the 
sand.  Around  us  still  are  some  stray  ramblers, 
who  presently  assume  the  air  of  ghosts,  with 
their  long  black  or  white  draperies,  and  noiseless 
tread.  And  then,  not  a soul;  nothing  but  the 
sand  and  the  moon. 

But  now  almost  at  once,  after  the  short  inter- 


The  Outskirts  of  Cairo  95 

veiling  nothingness,  we  find  ourselves  in  a 
new  town;  streets  with  little  low  houses,  little 
cross-roads,  little  squares,  all  of  them  white,  on 
whitened  sands,  beneath  a white  moon.  . . . 
But  there  is  no  electricity  in  this  town,  no 
lights,  and  nobody  is  stirring;  doors  and  windows 
are  shut:  no  movement  of  any  kind,  and  the 
silence,  at  first,  is  like  that  of  the  surrounding 
desert.  It  is  a town  in  which  the  half-light  of 
the  moon,  amongst  so  much  vague  whiteness, 
is  diffused  in  such  a way  that  it  seems  to  come 
from  all  sides  at  once  and  things  cast  no  shadows 
which  might  give  them  definiteness ; a town 
where  the  soil  is  so  yielding  that  our  progress  is 
weakened  and  retarded,  as  in  dreams.  It  seems 
unreal:  and,  in  penetrating  farther  into  it,  a 
sense  of  fear  comes  over  you  that  can  neither 
be  dismissed  nor  defined. 

For  assuredly  this  is  no  ordinary  town.  . . . 
And  yet  the  houses,  with  their  windows  barred 
like  those  of  a harem,  are  in  no  way  singular — 
except  that  they  are  shut  and  silent.  It  is  all 
this  whiteness,  perhaps,  which  freezes  us.  And 
then,  too,  the  silence  is  not,  in  fact,  like  that  of 
the  desert,  which  did  at  least  seem  natural, 
inasmuch  as  there  was  nothing  there;  here,  on 
the  contrary,  there  is  a sense  of  innumerable 
presences,  which  shrink  away  as  you  pass  but 
nevertheless  continue  to  watch  attentively.  . . . 


96  Egypt 

We  pass  mosques  in  total  darkness  and  they 
too  are  silent  and  white,  with  a slight  bluish 
tint  cast  on  them  by  the  moon.  And  sometimes, 
between  the  houses,  there  are  little  enclosed 
spaces,  like  narrow  gardens,  but  which  can  have 
no  possible  verdure.  'And  in  these  gardens 
numbers  of  little  obelisks  rise  from  the  sand — 
white  obelisks,  it  is  needless  to  say,  for  to-night 
Ave  are  in  the  kingdom  of  absolute  Avhiteness. 
What  can  they  be,  these  strange  little  gardens? 
. . . And  the  sand,  meanwhile,  which  covers 
the  streets  with  its  thick  coatings,  continues  to 
deaden  the  sound  of  our  progress,  out  of  com- 
pliment no  doubt  to  all  these  watchful  things 
that  are  so  silent  around  us. 

At  the  crossings  and  in  the  little  squares  the 
obelisks  become  more  numerous,  erected  always 
at  either  end  of  a slab  of  stone  that  is  about  the 
length  of  a man.  Their  little  motionless  groups, 
posted  as  if  on  the  Avatch,  seem  so  little  real  in 
their  vague  whiteness  that  A\’e  feel  tempted  to 
A’^erif)'^  them  by  touching,  and,  verily,  we  should 
not  be  astonished  if  our  hand  passed  through 
them  as  through  a ghost.  Farther  on  there  is  a 
AA'ide  expanse  without  any  houses  at  all,  Avhere 
these  ubiquitous  little  obelisks  abound  in  the 
sand  like  ears  of  corn  in  a field."  There  is  noAv 
no  further  room  for  illusion.  We  are  in  a cem- 
etery, and  have  been  passing  in  the  midst  of 


The  Outskirts  of  Cairo  97 

houses  of  the  dead,  and  mosques  of  the  dead,  in 
a town  of  the  dead. 

Once  emerged  from  this  cemetery,  which  in 
the  end  at  least  disclosed  itself  in  its  true  char- 
acter, we  are  involved  again  in  the  continuation 
of  the  mysterious  town,  which  takes  us  back 
into  its  network.  Little  houses  follow  one  an- 
other as  before,  only  now  the  little  gardens  are 
replaced  by  little  burial  enclosures.  And  every- 
thing grows  more  and  more  indistinct,  in  the 
gentle  light,  which  gradually  grows  less.  It  is 
as  if  someone  were  putting  frosted  globes  over 
the  moon,  so  that  soon,  but  for  the  transparency 
of  this  air  of  Egypt  and  the  prevailing  whiteness 
of  things,  there  would  be  no  light  at  all.  Once 
at  a window  the  light  of  a lamp  appears;  it  is 
the  lantern  of  gravediggers.  Anon  we  hear  the 
voices  of  men  chanting  a prayer;  and  the  prayer 
is  a prayer  for  the  dead. 

These  tenantless  houses  were  never  built  for 
dwellings.  They  are  simply  places  where  men 
assemble  on  certain  anniversaries,  to  pray  for  the 
dead.  Every  IVIoslem  family  of  any  note  has  its 
little  temple  of  this  kind,  near  to  the  family 
graves.  And  there  are  so  many  of  them  that 
now  the  place  is  become  a town — and  a town  in 
the  desert — that  is  to  say,  in  a place  useless  for 
any  other  purpose ; a secure  place  indeed,  for  we 
may  be  sure  that  the  ground  occupied  by  these 


98  Egypt 

poor  tombs  runs  no  risk  of  being  coveted — not 
even  in  the  irreverent  times  of  the  future.  No, 
it  is  on  the  other  side  of  Cairo— on  the  other 
bank  of  the  Nile,  amongst  the  verdure  of  the 
palm-trees,  that  we  must  look  for  the  suburb  in 
course  of  transformation,  with  its  villas  of  the 
invading  foreigner,  and  the  myriad  electric  lights 
along  its  motor  roads.  On  this  side  there  is  no 
such  fear;  the  peace  and  desuetude  are  eternal; 
and  the  winding  sheet  of  the  Arabian  sands  is 
ready  always  for  its  burial  office. 

At  the  end  of  this  town  of  the  dead,  the  desert 
again  opens  before  us  its  mournful  whitened 
expanse.  On  such  a night  as  this,  when  the 
wind  blows  cold  and  the  misty  moon  shows  like 
a sad  opal,  it  looks  like  a steppe  under  snow. 

But  it  is  a desert  planted  with  ruins,  with  the 
ghosts  of  mosques ; a whole  colony  of  high 
tumbling  domes  are  scattered  here  at  hazard 
on  the  shifting  extent  of  the  sands.  And  what 
strange  old-fashioned  domes  they  are!  The 
archaism  of  their  silhouettes  strikes  us  from  the 
first,  as  much  as  their  isolation  in  such  a place. 
They  look  like  bells,  or  gigantic  dervish  hats 
placed  on  pedestals,  and  those  farthest  away 
give  the  impression  of  squat,  large-headed  figures 
posted  there  as  sentinels,  watching  the  vague 
horizon  of  Arabia  beyond. 

They  are  the  proud  tombs  of  the  fourteenth 


The  Outskirts  of  Cairo  99 

and  fifteenth  centuries  where  the  Mameluke 
Sultans,  who  oppressed  Egypt  for  nearly  three 
hundred  years,  sleep  now  in  complete  abandon- 
ment. Nowadays,  it  is  true,  some  visits  are 
beginning  to  be  paid  to  them — on  winter  nights 
when  the  moon  is  full  and  they  throw  on  the 
sands  their  great  clear-cut  shadows.  At  such 
times  the  light  is  considered  favourable,  and 
they  rank  among  the  curiosities  exploited  by  the 
agencies.  Numbers  of  tourists  (who  persist  in 
calling  them  the  tombs  of  the  caliphs)  betake 
themselves  thither  of  an  evening — a noisy  caravan 
mounted  on  little  donkeys.  But  to-night  the 
moon  is  too  pale  and  uncertain,  and  we  shall  no 
doubt  be  alone  in  troubling  them  in  their  ghostly 
communion. 

To-night  indeed  the  light  is  quite  unusual. 
As  just  now  in  the  town  of  the  dead,  it  is  diffused 
on  all  sides  and  gives  even  to  the  most  massive 
objects  the  transparent  semblance  of  unreality. 
But  nevertheless  it  shows  their  detail  and  leaves 
them  something  of  their  daylight  colouring,  so 
that  all  these  funeral  domes,  raised  on  the  ruins 
of  the  mosques,  which  serve  them  as  pedestals, 
have  preserved  their  reddish  or  brown  colours, 
although  the  sand  which  separates  them,  and 
makes  between  the  tombs  of  the  different  sultans 
little  dead  solitudes,  remains  pale  and  wan. 

And  meanwhile  our  carriage,  proceeding  al- 


loo  Egypt 

ways  without  noise,  traces  on  this  same  sand  little 
furrows  which  the  wind  will  have  effaced  by 
to-morrow.  There  are  no  roads  of  any  kind; 
they  would  indeed  be  as  useless  as  they  are 
impossible  to  make.  You  may  pass  here  where 
you  list,  and  fancy  yourself  far  away  from  any 
place  inhabited  by  living  beings.  The  great  town, 
which  we  know  to  be  so  close,  appears  from  time 
to  time,  thanks  to  the  undulations  of  the  ground, 
as  a mere  phosphorescence,  a reflection  of  its 
myriad  electric  lights.  We  are  indeed  in  the 
desert  of  the  dead,  in  the  sole  company  of  the 
moon,  which,  by  the  fantasy  of  this  wonderful 
Egyptian  sky,  is  to-night  a moon  of  grey  pearl, 
one  might  almost  say  a moon  of  mother-of-pearl. 

Each  of  these  funeral  mosques  is  a thing  of 
splendour,  if  one  examines  it  closely  in  its  soli- 
tude. Those  strange  upraised  domes,  which  from 
a distance  look  like  the  head-dresses  of  dervishes 
or  magi,  are  embroidered  with  arabesques,  and 
the  walls  are  crowned  with  denticulated  trefoils 
of  exquisite  fashioning. 

But  nobody  venerates  these  tombs  of  the 
Mameluke  oppressors,  or  keeps  them  in  repair; 
and  within  them  there  are  no  more  chants,  no 
prayers  to  Allah.  Night  after  night  they  pass  in 
an  infinity  of  silence.  Piety  contents  itself  with 
not  destroying  them;  leaving  them  there  at  the 
mercy  of  time  and  the  sun  and  the  wind  which 


The  Outskirts  of  Cairo  loi 

withers  and  crumbles  them.  And  all  around  are 
the  signs  of  ruin.  Tottering  cupolas  show  us 
irreparable  cracks;  the  halves  of  broken  arches 
are  outlined  to-night  in  shadow  against  the 
mother-of-pearl  light  of  the  sky,  and  debris  of 
sculptured  stones  are  strewn  about.  But  never- 
theless these  tombs,  that  are  well-nigh  accursed, 
still  stir  in  us  a vague  sense  of  alarm — particu- 
larly those  in  the  distance,  which  rise  up  like  sil- 
houettes of  misshapen  giants  in  enormous  hats — 
dark  on  the  white  sheet  of  sand — and  stand  there 
in  groups,  or  scattered  in  confusion,  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  vast  empty  regions  beyond. 

• •••••  • 
We  had  chosen  a time  when  the  light  was 
doubtful  in  order  that  we  might  avoid  the 
tourists,  but  as  we  approach  the  funeral  dwell- 
ing of  Sultan  Barkuk,  the  assassin,  we  see,  issu- 
ing from  it,  a whole  band,  some  twenty  in  a line, 
who  emerge  from  the  darkness  of  the  abandoned 
walls,  each  trotting  on  his  little  donkey  and  each 
followed  by  the  inevitable  Bedouin  driver,  who 
taps  with  his  stick  upon  the  rump  of  the  beast. 
They  are  returning  to  Cairo,  their  visit  ended, 
and  exchange  in  a loud  voice,  from  one  ass  to 
another,  more  or  less  inept  impressions  in  various 
European  languages.  . . . And  look!  there  is 
even  amongst  them  the  almost  proverbial  belated 
dame  who,  for  private  reasons  of  her  own,  follows 


102  Egypt 

at  a respectable  distance  behind.  She  is  a little 
mature  perhaps,  so  far  as  can  be  judged  in  the 
moonlight,  but  nevertheless  still  sympathetic  to 
her  driver,  who,  with  both  hands,  supports  her 
from  behind  on  her  saddle,  with  a touching 
solicitude  that  is  peculiar  to  the  country.  Ah! 
these  little  donkeys  of  Egypt,  so  observant,  so 
philosophical  and  sly,  why  cannot  they  write 
their  memoirs!  What  a number  of  droll  things 
they  must  have  seen  at  night  in  the  outskirts  of 
Cairo! 

This  good  lady  evidently  belongs  to  that  ex- 
tensive category  of  hardy  explorers  who,  despite 
their  high  respectability  at  home,  do  not  hesitate, 
once  they  are  landed  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile, 
to  supplement  their  treatment  by  the  sun  and 
the  dry  winds  with  a little  of  the  “ Bedouin 


cure: 


ARCHAIC  CHRISTIANITY 


i 


CHAPTER  VIII 


ARCHAIC  CHRISTIANITY 

Dimly  lighted  by  the  flames  of  a few  poor 
slender  tapers  which  flicker  against  the  walls  in 
stone  niches,  a dense  crowd  of  human  figures 
veiled  in  black,  in  a place  overpowering  and  suf- 
focating— underground,  no  doubt — which  is  filled 
with  the  perfume  of  the  incense  of  Arabia:  and  a 
noise  of  almost  wicked  movement,  which  stirs  us 
to  alarm  and  even  horror:  bleatings  of  new-born 
babies,  cries  of  distress  of  tiny  mites  whose 
voices  are  drowned,  as  if  on  purpose,  by  a 
chnking  of  cymbals.  . . . 

What  can  it  be?  Why  have  they  descended 
into  this  dark  hole,  these  little  ones,  who  howl 
in  the  midst  of  the  smoke,  held  by  these  phantoms 
in  mourning?  Had  we  entered  it  unawares  we 
might  have  thought  it  a den  of  wicked  sorcery, 
an  underground  cavern  for  the  black  mass. 

But  no.  It  is  the  crypt  of  the  basilica  of 
St  Sergius  during  the  Coptic  mass  of  Easter 
morning.  And  when,  after  the  first  surprise, 
we  examine  these  phantoms,  we  find  that,  for 
the  most  part,  they  are  young  mothers,  with  the 
refined  and  gentle  faces  of  JNIadonnas,  who  hold 
I OS 


io6  Egypt 

the  plaintive  little  ones  beneath  their  black  veils 
and  seek  to  comfort  them.  And  the  sorcerer, 
who  plays  the  cymbals,  is  a kind  old  priest,  or 
sacristan,  who  smiles  paternally.  If  he  makes 
all  this  noise,  in  a rhythm  which  in  itself  is  full 
of  joy,  it  is  to  mark  the  gladness  of  Easter  morn, 
to  celebrate  the  resurrection  of  Christ — and  a 
little,  too,  no  doubt,  to  distract  the  little  ones, 
some  of  whom  are  woefully  put  out.  But  their 
mammas  do  not  prolong  the  proof — a mere 
momentary  visit  to  this  venerable  place,  which 
is  to  bring  them  happiness,  and  they  carry  their 
babes  away:  and  others  are  led  in  by  the  dark, 
narrow  staircase,  so  low  that  one  cannot  stand 
upright  in  it.  And  thus  the  crypt  is  not 
emptied.  And  meanwhile  mass  is  being  said 
in  the  Church  overhead. 

But  what  a number  of  people,  of  black  veils, 
are  in  this  hovel,  where  the  air  can  scarcely  be 
breathed,  and  where  the  barbarous  music,  min- 
gled with  wailings  and  cries,  deafens  you!  And 
what  an  air  of  antiquity  marks  all  things  here! 
The  defaced  walls,  the  low  roof  that  one  can 
easily  touch,  the  granite  pillars  which  sustain  the 
shapeless  arches,  are  all  blackened  by  the  smoke 
of  the  wax  candles,  and  scarred  and  worn  by  the 
friction  of  human  hands. 

At  the  end  of  the  crypt  there  is  a very  sacred 
recess  round  which  a crowd  presses:  a coarse 


Archaic  Christianity  107 

niche,  a little  larger  than  those  cut  in  the  wall 
to  receive  the  tapers,  a niche  which  covers  the 
ancient  stone  on  which,  according  to  tradition, 
the  Virgin  Mary  rested,  with  the  child  Jesus,  in 
the  course  of  the  flight  into  Egypt.  This  holy 
stone  is  sadly  worn  to-day  and  polished  smooth 
by  the  touch  of  many  pious  hands,  and  the 
Byzantine  cross  which  once  was  carved  on  it  is 
almost  effaced. 

But  even  if  the  Virgin  had  never  rested  there, 
the  humble  crypt  of  St  Sergius  would  remain 
no  less  one  of  the  oldest  Christian  sanctuaries  in 
the  world.  And  the  Copts  who  still  assemble 
there  with  veneration  have  preceded  by  many 
years  the  greater  part  of  our  Western  nations  in 
the  religion  of  the  Bible. 

Although  the  history  of  Egypt  envelops  itself 
in  a sort  of  night  at  the  moment  of  the  appear- 
ance of  Christianity,  we  know  that  the  growth 
of  the  new  faith  there  was  as  rapid  and  im- 
petuous as  the  germination  of  plants  under  the 
overflow  of  the  Nile.  The  old  Pharaonic  cults, 
amalgamated  at  that  time  with  those  of  Greece, 
were  so  obscured  under  a mass  of  rites  and  for- 
mulae, that  they  had  ceased  to  have  any  mean- 
ing. And  nevertheless  here,  as  in  imperial  Rome, 
there  brooded  the  ferment  of  a passionate  mysti- 
cism. Moreover,  this  Egyptian  people,  more 
than  any  other,  was  haunted  by  the  terror  of 


io8 


Egypt 

death,  as  is  proved  by  the  folly  of  its  embalm- 
ments. With  what  avidity  therefore  must  it 
have  received  the  Word  of  fraternal  love  and 
immediate  resurrection. 

In  any  case  Christianity  was  so  firmly  im- 
planted in  this  Egypt  that  centuries  of  persecu- 
tion did  not  succeed  in  destroying  it.  As  one 
goes  up  the  Nile,  many  little  human  settlements 
are  to  be  seen,  little  groups  of  houses  of  dried 
mud,  where  the  whitened  dome  of  the  modest 
house  of  prayer  is  surmounted  by  a cross  and 
not  a crescent.  They  are  the  villages  of  those 
Copts,  those  Egyptians,  who  have  preserved  the 
Christian  faith  from  father  to  son  since  the 
nebulous  times  of  the  first  martyrs. 

• •••••• 

The  simple  Church  of  St  Sergius  is  a relic 
hidden  away  and  almost  buried  in  the  midst  of  a 
labyrinth  of  ruins.  Without  a guide  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  find  your  way  thither.  The  quarter 
in  which  it  is  situated  is  enclosed  within  the  walls 
of  what  was  once  a Roman  fortress,  and  this 
fortress  in  its  turn  is  surrounded  by  the  tranquil 
ruins  of  “ Old  Cairo  ” — which  is  to  the  Cairo 
of  the  Mamelukes  and  the  Khedives,  in  a small 
degree,  what  Versailles  is  to  Paris. 

On  this  Easter  morning,  having  set  out  from 
the  Cairo  of  to-day  to  be  present  at  this  mass, 
we  have  first  to  traverse  a suburb  in  course  of 


Archaic  Christianity  109 

transformation,  upon  whose  ancient  soil  will 
shortly  appear  numbers  of  those  modern  horrors, 
in  mud  and  metal — factories  or  large  hotels — 
which  multiply  in  this  poor  land  with  a stupefy- 
ing rapidity.  Then  comes  a mile  or  so  of  un- 
cultivated ground,  mixed  with  stretches  of  sand, 
and  already  a little  desertlike.  And  then  the 
walls  of  Old  Cairo;  after  which  begins  the  peace 
of  the  deserted  houses,  of  little  gardens  and  or- 
chards among  the  ruins.  The  wind  and  the  dust 
beset  us  the  whole  way,  the  almost  eternal  wind 
and  the  eternal  dust  of  this  land,  by  which,  since 
the  beginning  of  the  ages,  so  many  human  eyes 
have  been  burnt  beyond  recovery.  They  keep 
us  now  in  blinding  whirlwinds,  which  swarm 
with  flies.  The  “ season  ” indeed  is  already  over, 
and  the  foreign  invaders  have  fled  until  next 
autumn.  Egypt  is  now  more  Egyptian,  beneath 
a more  burning  sky.  The  sun  of  this  Easter 
Sunday  is  as  hot  as  ours  of  July,  and  the  ground 
seems  as  if  it  would  perish  of  drought.  But  it 
is  always  thus  in  the  springtime  of  this  rainless 
country;  the  trees,  which  have  kept  their  leaves 
throughout  the  winter,  shed  them  in  April  as  ours 
do  in  November.  There  is  no  shade  anywhere 
and  everything  suffers.  ' Everything  grows  yel- 
low on  the  yellow  sands.  But  there  is  no  cause 
for  uneasiness:  the  inundation  is  at  hand,  which 
has  never  failed  since  the  commencement  of  our 


no  Egypt 

geological  period.  In  another  few  weeks  the 
prodigious  river  will  spread  along  its  banks,  just 
as  in  the  times  of  the  God  Amen,  a precocious 
and  impetuous  life.  And  meanwhile  the  orange- 
trees,  the  jasmine  and  the  honeysuckle,  which 
men  have  taken  care  to  water  with  water  from  the 
Nile,  are  full  of  riotous  bloom.  As  we  pass  the 
gardens  of  Old  Cairo,  which  alternate  with  the 
tumbling  houses,  this  continual  cloud  of  white 
dust  that  envelops  us  comes  suddenly  laden  with 
their  sweet  fragrance ; so  that,  despite  the  drought 
and  the  bareness  of  the  trees,  the  scents  of  a sud- 
den and  feverish  springtime  are  already  in  the  air. 

When  we  arrive  at  the  walls  of  what  used  to 
be  the  Roman  citadel  we  have  to  descend  from 
our  carriage,  and  passing  through  a low  doorway 
penetrate  on  foot  into  the  labyrinth  of  a Coptic 
quarter  which  is  dying  of  dust  and  old  age. 
Deserted  houses  that  have  become  the  refuges 
of  outcasts;  mushrabiyas,  worm-eaten  and  de- 
cayed; little  mousetrap  alleys  that  lead  us  under 
arches  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  sometimes 
close  over  our  heads  by  reason  of  the  fantastic 
bending  of  the  ruins.  Even  by  such  a route  as 
this  are  we  conducted  to  a famous  basilica! 
Were  it  not  for  these  groups  of  Copts,  dressed 
in  their  Sunday  garb,  who  make  their  way  like 
us  through  the  ruins  to  the  Easter  mass,  we 
should  think  that  we  had  lost  our  way. 


Archaic  Christianity  in 

And  how  pretty  they  look,  these  women 
draped  like  phantoms  in  their  black  silks.  Their 
long  veils  do  not  completely  hide  them,  as  do 
those  of  the  Moslems.  They  are  simply  placed 
over  their  hair  and  leave  uncovered  the  delicate 
features,  the  golden  necklet  and  the  half-bared 
arms  that  carry  on  their  wrists  thick  twisted 
bracelets  of  virgin  gold.  Pure  Egyptians  as 
they  are,  they  have  preserved  the  same  delicate 
profile,  the  same  elongated  eyes,  as  mark  the  old 
goddesses  carved  in  bas-relief  on  the  Pharaonic 
walls.  But  some,  alas,  amongst  the  young  ones 
have  discarded  their  traditional  costume,  and  are 
arrayed  d la  franque,  in  gowns  and  hats.  And 
such  gowns,  such  hats,  such  flowers!  The  very 
peasants  of  our  meanest  villages  would  disdain 
them.  Oh!  why  cannot  someone  tell  these  poor 
little  women,  who  have  it  in  their  power  to  be  so 
adorable,  that  the  beautiful  folds  of  their  black 
veils  give  to  them  an  exquisite  and  characteristic 
distinction,  while  this  poor  tinsel,  which  recalls 
the  mid-Lent  carnivals,  makes  of  them  objects 
that  excite  our  pity! 

In  one  of  the  walls  which  now  surround  us 
there  is  a low  and  shrinking  doorway.  Can  this 
be  the  entrance  to  the  basilica?  The  idea  seems 
absurd.  And  yet  some  of  the  pretty  creatures 
in  the  black  veils  and  bracelets  of  gold,  who  were 
in  front  of  us,  have  disappeared  through  it,  and 


1 12 


Egypt 

already  the  perfume  of  the  censers  is  wafted  to- 
wards us.  A kind  of  corridor,  astonishingly  poor 
and  old,  twists  itself  suspiciously,  and  then  issues 
into  a narrow  court,  more  than  a thousand  years 
old,  where  offertory  boxes,  fixed  on  Oriental 
brackets,  invite  our  alms.  The  odour  of  the  in- 
cense becomes  more  pronounced,  and  at  last  a 
door,  hidden  in  shadow  at  the  end  of  this  retreat, 
gives  access  to  the  venerable  church  itself. 

The  church!  It  is  a mixture  of  Byzantine 
basilica,  mosque  and  desert  hut.  Entering  there, 
it  is  as  if  we  were  introduced  suddenly  to  the 
naive  infancy  of  Christianity,  as  if  we  surprised 
it,  as  it  were,  in  its  cradle — which  was  indeed 
Oriental.  The  triple  nave  is  full  of  little  chil- 
dren (here  also,  that  is  what  strikes  us  first), 
of  little  mites  who  cry  or  else  laugh  and  play; 
and  there  are  mothers  suckling  their  new-born 
babes — and  all  the  time  the  invisible  mass  is 
being  celebrated  beyond,  behind  the  iconostasis. 
On  the  ground,  on  mats,  whole  families  are 
seated  in  circle,  as  if  they  were  in  their  homes. 
A thick  deposit  of  white  chalk  on  the  defaced, 
shrunken  walls  bears  witness  to  great  age.  And 
over  all  this  is  a strange  old  ceiling  of  cedarwood, 
traversed  by  large  barbaric  beams. 

In  the  nave,  supported  by  columns  of  marble, 
brought  in  days  gone  by  from  Pagan  temples, 
there  are,  as  in  all  these  old  Coptic  churches. 


Archaic  Christianity  113 

high  transverse  wooden  partitions,  elaborately 
wrought  in  the  Arab  fashion,  which  divide  it 
into  three  sections:  the  first,  into  which  one 
comes  on  entering  the  church,  is  allotted  to  the 
women,  the  second  is  for  the  baptistery,  and 
the  third,  at  the  end  adjoining  the  iconostasis, 
is  reserved  for  the  men. 

These  women  who  are  gathered  this  morning 
in  their  apportioned  space — so  much  at  home 
there  with  their  suckling  little  ones — wear,  al- 
most all  of  them,  the  long  black  silk  veils  of 
former  days.  In  their  harmonious  and  endlessly 
restless  groups,  the  gowns  a la  franque  and  the 
poor  hats  of  carnival  are  still  the  exception. 
The  congregation,  as  a whole,  preserves  almost 
intact  its  naive,  old-time  favour. 

And  there  is  movement  too,  beyond,  in  the 
compartment  of  the  men,  which  is  bounded  at 
the  farther  end  by  the  iconostasis — a thousand- 
year-old  wall  decorated  with  inlaid  cedarwood 
and  ivory  of  precious  antique  workmanship,  and 
adorned  with  strange  old  icons,  blackened  by 
time.  It  is  behind  this  wall — pierced  by  several 
doorways — that  mass  is  now  being  said.  From 
this  last  sanctuary  shut  off  thus  from  the  people 
comes  the  vague  sound  of  singing;  from  time  to 
time  a priest  raises  a faded  silk  curtain  and  from 
the  threshold  makes  the  sign  of  blessing.  His 
vestments  are  of  gold,  and  he  wears  a golden 


1 14  ' Egypt 

crown,  but  the  humble  faithful  speak  to  him 
freely,  and  even  touch  his  gorgeous  garments, 
that  might  be  those  of  one  of  the  Wise  Kings. 
He  smiles,  and  letting  fall  the  curtain,  which 
covers  the  entrance  to  the  tabernacle,  disappears 
again  into  his  innocent  mystery. 

Even  the  least  things  here  tell  of  decay.  The 
flagstones,  trodden  by  the  feet  of  numberless 
dead  generations,  are  become  uneven  through  the 
settling  of  the  soil.  Everything  is  askew,  bent, 
dusty  and  worn-out.  The  daylight  comes  from 
above,  through  narrow  barred  windows.  There 
is  a lack  of  air,  so  that  one  almost  stifles.  But 
though  the  sun  does  not  enter,  a certain  in- 
definable reflection  from  the  whitened  walls  re- 
minds us  that  outside  there  is  a flaming,  resplen- 
dent Eastern  spring. 

In  this,  the  old  grandfather,  as  it  were,  of 
churches,  filled  now  with  a cloud  of  odorous 
smoke,  what  one  hears,  more  even  than  the 
chanting  of  the  mass,  is  the  ceaseless  movement, 
the  pious  agitation  of  the  faithful;  and  more 
even  than  that,  the  startling  noise  that  rises 
from  the  holy  crypt  below — the  sharp  clashing 
of  cymbals  and  those  multitudinous  little  wail- 
ings, that  sound  like  the  mewings  of  kittens. 

But  let  me  not  harbour  thoughts  of  irony! 
Surely  not.  If,  in  our  Western  lands,  certain 
ceremonies  seem  to  me  anti-Christian — as,  for 


Archaic  Christianity  115 

example,  one  of  those  spectacular  high  masses 
in  the  over-pompous  Cathedral  of  Cologne,  where 
halberdiers  overawe  the  crowd — here,  on  the  con- 
trary, the  simplicity  of  this  primitive  cult  is 
touching  and  respectable  in  the  extreme.  These 
Copts  who  instal  themselves  in  their  church  as 
round  their  firesides,  who  make  their  home  there 
and  encumber  the  place  ^vith  their  fretful  little 
ones,  have,  in  their  own  way,  well  understood 
the  words  of  Him  who  said:  “ Suffer  the  little 
children  to  come  unto  Me,  and  do  not  forbid 
them,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  God.” 


THE  RACE  OF  BRONZE 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  RACE  OF  BRONZE 

A MONOTONOUS  chant  on  three  notes,  which  must 
date  from  the  first  Pharaohs,  may  still  be  heard 
in  our  days  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  from  the 
Delta  as  far  as  Nubia.  At  different  places  along 
the  river,  half-nude  men,  with  torsos  of  bronze 
and  voices  all  alike,  intone  it  in  the  morning  when 
they  commence  their  endless  labours  and  con- 
tinue it  throughout  the  day,  until  the  evening 
brings  repose. 

Whoever  has  journeyed  in  a dahabiya  up  the 
old  river  will  remember  this  song  of  the  water- 
drawers,  with  its  accompaniment,  in  slow  cadence, 
of  creakings  of  wet  wood. 

It  is  the  song  of  the  “ shaduf,”  and  the 
“ shaduf  ” is  a primitive  rigging,  which  has  re- 
mained unchanged  since  times  beyond  all  reckon- 
ing. It  is  composed  of  a long  antenna,  like  the 
yard  of  a tartan,  which  is  supported  in  see-saw 
fashion  on  an  upright  beam,  and  carries  at  its 
extremity  a wooden  bucket.  A man,  with 
movements  of  singular  beauty,  works  it  while 
he  sings,  lowers  the  antenna,  draws  the  water 
from  the  river,  and  raises  the  filled  bucket,  which 
119 


120 


Egypt 

another  man  catches  in  its  ascent  and  empties 
into  a basin  made  out  of  the  mud  of  the  river 
bank.  When  the  river  is  low  there  are  three 
such  basins,  placed  one  above  the  other,  as  if 
they  were  stages  by  which  the  precious  water 
mounts  to  the  fields  of  corn  and  lucerne.  And 
then  three  “ shadufs,”  one  above  the  other,  creak 
together,  lowering  and  raising  their  great  scara- 
ba2us’  horns  to  the  rhythm  of  the  same  song. 

All  along  the  banks  of  the  Nile  this  movement 
of  the  antennae  of  the  shadufs  is  to  be  seen.  It 
had  its  beginning  in  the  earliest  ages  and  is  still 
the  characteristic  manifestation  of  human  life 
along  the  river  banks.  It  ceases  only  in  the 
summer,  when  the  river,  swollen  by  the  rains  of 
equatorial  Africa,  overflows  this  land  of  Egjq)t, 
which  it  itself  has  made  in  the  midst  of  the 
Saharan  sands.  But  in  the  winter,  which  is  here 
a time  of  luminous  drought  and  changeless  blue 
skies,  it  is  in  full  swing.  Then  every  day,  from 
da^vTi  until  the  evening  prayer,  the  men  are  busy 
at  their  water-drawing,  transformed  for  the  time 
into  tireless  machines,  with  muscles  that  w’ork 
like  metal  bands.  The  action  never  changes, 
any  more  than  the  song,  and  often  their  thoughts 
must  wander  from  their  automatic  toil,  and  lose 
themselves  in  some  dream,  akin  to  that  of  their 
ancestors  who  were  yoked  to  the  same  rigging 
four  or  five  thousand  years  ago.  Their  torsos. 


12  I 


The  Race  of  Bronze 

deluged  at  each  rising  of  the  overflowing  bucket, 
stream  constantly  with  cold  water;  and  some- 
times the  wind  is  icy,  even  Avhile  the  sun  burns; 
but  these  perpetual  workers  are,  as  Ave  have  said, 
of  bronze,  and  their  hardened  bodies  take  no 
harm. 

These  men  are  the  fellahs,  the  peasants  of  the 
valley  of  the  Nile — pure  Egyptians,  whose  type 
has  not  changed  in  the  course  of  centuries.  In 
the  oldest  of  the  bas-reliefs  of  Thebes  or  Mem- 
phis you  may  see  many  such,  AAdth  the  same  noble 
profile  and  thickish  lips,  the  same  elongated  eyes 
shadowed  by  heavy  eyelids,  the  same  slender 
figure,  surmounted  by  broad  shoulders. 

The  AA’omen  who  from  time  to  time  descend 
to  the  river,  to  draAv  Avater  also,  but  in  their 
case  in  the  vases  of  potters’  clay  Avhich  they 
carry — this  fetching  and  carrying  of  the  life- 
giving  water  is  the  one  primordial  occupation  in 
this  Egypt,  which  has  no  rain,  nor  any  living 
spring,  and  subsists  only  by  its  river — these 
women  walk  and  posture  with  an  inimitable 
grace,  draped  in  black  veils,  which  even  the 
poorest  allow  to  trail  behind  them,  like  the  train 
of  a court  dress.  In  this  bright  land,  with  its 
rose-coloured  distances,  it  is  strange  to  see  them, 
all  so  sombrely  clothed,  spots  of  mourning,  as  it 
Avere,  in  the  gay  fields  and  the  flaring  desert. 
Machine-like  creatures,  all  untaught,  they  yet 


122 


Egypt 

possess  by  instinct,  as  did  once  the  daughters  of 
Hellas,  a sense  of  nobility  in  attitude  and  car- 
riage. None  of  the  women  of  Europe  could  wear 
these  coarse  black  stuffs  with  such  a majestic 
harmony,  and  none  surely  could  so  raise  their 
bare  arms  to  j)lace  on  their  heads  the  heavy  jars 
filled  with  Nile  water,  and  then,  departing,  carry 
themselves  so  proudly,  so  upright  and  resilient 
under  their  burden. 

The  muslin  tunics  which  they  wear  are  in- 
variably black  like  the  veils,  set  off  perhaps  with 
some  red  embroidery  or  silver  spangles.  They 
are  unfastened  across  the  chest,  and,  by  a narrow 
opening  which  descends  to  the  girdle,  disclose  the 
amber-coloured  flesh,  the  median  swell  of  bosoms 
of  pale  bronze,  which,  during  their  ephemeral 
youth  at  least,  are  of  a perfect  contour.  The 
faces,  it  is  true,  when  they  are  not  hidden  from 
you  by  a fold  of  the  veil,  are  generally  disap- 
pointing. The  rude  labours,  the  early  maternity 
and  lactations,  soon  age  and  wither  them.  But 
if  by  chance  you  see  a young  woman  she  is 
usually  an  apparition  of  beauty,  at  once  vigorous 
and  slender. 

As  for  the  fellah  babies,  who  abound  in  great 
numbers  and  follow,  half  naked,  their  mammas 
or  their  big  sisters,  they  would  for  the  most  part 
be  adorable  little  creatures,  were  it  not  for  the 
dirtiness  which  in  this  country  is  a thing  almost 


The  Race  of  Bronze  123 

prescribed  by  tradition.  Round  their  eyelids 
and  their  moist  lips  are  glued  little  clusters  of 
Egyptian  flies,  which  are  considered  here  to  be 
beneficial  to  the  children,  and  the  latter  have 
no  thought  of  driving  them  away,  so  resigned 
are  they  become,  by  force  of  heredity,  to  what- 
ever annoyance  they  thereby  suffer.  Another 
example  indeed  of  the  passivity  which  their 
fathers  show  when  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
invading  foreigners! 

Passivity  and  meek  endurance  seem  to  be 
the  characteristics  of  this  inoffensive  people,  so 
graceful  in  their  rags,  so  mysterious  in  their 
age-old  immobility,  and  so  ready  to  accept  with 
an  equal  indifference  whatever  yoke  may  come. 
Poor,  beautiful  people,  with  muscles  that  never 
grow  tired!  Whose  men  in  olden  times  moved 
the  great  stones  of  the  temples,  and  knew  no 
burden  that  was  too  heavy;  whose  women,  with 
their  slender,  pale-tawny  arms  and  delicate  small 
hands,  surpass  by  far  in  strength  the  burliest 
of  our  peasants!  Poor  beautiful  race  of  bronze! 
No  doubt  it  was  too  precocious  and  put  forth 
too  soon  its  astonishing  flower — in  times  when 
the  other  peoples  of  the  earth  w^ere  still  vegetat- 
ing in  obscurity;  no  doubt  its  present  resigna- 
tion comes  from  lassitude,  after  so  many  centuries 
of  effort  and  expansive  power.  Once  it  mono- 
polised the  glory  of  the  world,  and  here  it  is 


124  Egypt 

now — for  some  two  thousand  years — fallen  into 
a kind  of  tired  sleep,  which  has  left  it  an  easy 
prey  alike  to  the  conquerors  of  yesterday  and 
to  the  exploiters  of  to-day. 

Another  trait  which,  side  by  side  with  their 
patience,  prevails  amongst  these  true-blooded 
Egyptians  of  the  countryside  is  their  attachment 
to  the  soil,  to  the  soil  which  nourishes  them,  and 
in  which  later  on  they  will  sleep.  To  possess 
land,  to  forestall  at  any  price  the  smallest  por- 
tion of  it,  to  reclaim  patches  of  it  from  the 
shifting  desert,  that  is  the  sole  aim,  or  almost 
so,  which  the  fellahs  pursue  in  this  world:  to 
possess  a field,  however  small  it  may  be — a field, 
moreover,  which  they  till  with  the  oldest  plough 
invented  by  man,  the  exact  design  of  which  may 
be  seen  carved  on  the  walls  of  the  tombs  at 
Memphis. 

And  this  same  people,  which  was  the  first  of 
any  to  conceive  magnificence,  whose  gods  and 
kings  were  formerly  surrounded  with  an  over- 
powering splendour,  contrives  to  live  to-day, 
pell-mell  with  its  sheep  and  goats,  in  humble, 
low-roofed  cabins  made  out  of  sunbaked  mud! 
The  Egyptian  villages  are  all  of  the  neutral 
colour  of  the  soil;  a little  white  chalk  brightens, 
perhaps,  the  minaret  or  cupola  of  the  mosque; 
but  except  for  that  little  refuge,  whither  folk 
come  to  pray  each  evening — for  no  one  here 


The  Race  of  Bronze  125 

would  retire  for  the  night  without  having  first 
prostrated  himself  before  the  majesty  of  Allah 
— everything  is  of  a mournful  grey.  Even  the 
costumes  of  the  people  are  dull-coloured  and 
wretched-looking.  It  is  an  East  grown  poor 
and  old,  although  the  sky  remains  as  wonderful 
as  ever. 

But  all  this  past  grandeur  has  left  its  imprint 
on  the  fellahs.  They  have  a refinement  of  ap- 
pearance and  manner,  all  unknown  amongst 
the  majority  of  the  good  people  of  our  villages. 
And  those  amongst  them  who  by  good  fortune 
become  prosperous  have  forthwith  a kind  of  dis- 
tinction, and  seem  to  know,  as  if  by  birth,  how 
to  dispense  the  gracious  hospitality  of  an  aris- 
tocrat. The  hospitality  of  even  the  humblest 
preserves  something  of  courtesy  and  ease,  which 
tells  of  breed.  I remember  those  clear  evenings 
when,  after  the  peaceful  navigation  of  the  day, 
I used  to  stop  and  draw  up  my  dahabiya  to 
the  bank  of  the  river.  (I  speak  now  of  out-of- 
the-way  places — free  as  yet  from  the  canker 
of  the  tourist  element — such  as  I habitually 
chose.)  It  was  in  the  twilight  at  the  hour  when 
the  stars  began  to  shine  out  from  the  golden 
green  sky.  As  soon  as  I put  foot  upon  the 
shore,  and  my  arrival  was  signalled  by  the  bark- 
ing of  the  watchdogs,  the  chief  of  the  nearest 
hamlet  always  came  to  meet  me.  A dignified 


126  Egypt 

man,  in  a long  robe  of  striped  silk  or  modest 
blue  cotton,  he  accosted  me  with  formulas  of 
welcome  quite  in  the  grand  manner;  insisted  on 
my  following  him  to  his  house  of  dried  mud ; and 
there,  escorting  me,  after  the  exchange  of  further 
compliments,  to  the  place  of  honour  on  the  poor 
divan  of  his  lodging,  forced  me  to  accept  the 
traditional  cup  of  Arab  coffee. 

To  wake  these  fellahs  from  their  strange  sleep, 
to  open  their  eyes  at  last,  and  to  transform  them 
by  a modern  education — that  is  the  task  which 
nowadays  a select  band  of  Egyptian  patriots  is 
desirous  of  attempting.  Not  long  ago,  such  an 
endeavour  would  have  seemed  to  me  a crime; 
for  these  stubborn  peasants  were  living  under 
conditions  of  the  least  suffering,  rich  in  faith 
and  poor  in  desire.  But  to-day  they  are  suffering 
from  an  invasion  more  undermining,  more  dan- 
gerous than  that  of  the  conquerors  who  killed 
by  sword  and  fire.  The  Occidentals  are  there, 
everywhere,  amongst  them,  profiting  by  their 
meek  passivity  to  turn  them  into  slaves  for  their 
business  and  their  pleasure.  The  work  of  degra- 
dation of  these  simpletons  is  so  easy:  men  bring 
them  new  desires,  new  greeds,  new  needs, — and 
rob  them  of  their  prayers. 

Yes,  it  is  time  perhaps  to  wake  them  from 
their  sleep  of  more  than  twenty  centuries,  to  put 


The  Race  of  Bronze  127 

them  on  their  guard,  and  to  see  what  yet  they 
may  be  capable  of,  what  surprises  they  may 
have  in  store  for  us  after  that  long  lethargy, 
which  must  surely  have  been  restorative.  In  any 
case  the  human  species,  in  course  of  deteriora- 
tion through  overstrain,  would  find  amongst 
these  singers  of  the  shaduf  and  these  labourers 
with  the  antiquated  plough,  brains  unclouded  by 
alcohol,  and  a whole  reserve  of  tranquil  beauty, 
of  well-balanced  physique,  of  vigour  untainted 
by  bestiality. 


A CHARMING  LUNCHEON 


CHAPTER  X 


A CHARMING  LUNCHEON 

We  are  making  our  way  through  the  fields  of 
Abydos  in  the  dazzling  splendour  of  the  forenoon, 
having  come,  like  so  many  pilgrims  of  old,  from 
the  banks  of  the  Nile  to  visit  the  sanctuaries  of 
Osiris,  which  lie  beyond  the  green  plains,  on  the 
edge  of  the  desert. 

It  is  a journey  of  some  ten  miles  or  so,  under 
a clear  sky  and  a burning  sun.  We  pass  through 
fields  of  corn  and  lucerne,  whose  wonderful 
green  is  piqued  with  little  flowers,  such  as  may 
be  seen  in  our  clus^fite.  Hundreds  of  little  birds 
sing  to  us  distractedly  of  the  joy  of  life;  the  sun 
shines  radiantly,  magnificently;  the  impetuous 
corn  is  already  in  the  ear;  it  might  be  some  gay 
pageant  of  our  days  of  May.  One  forgets  that 
it  is  February,  that  we  are  still  in  the  winter — 
the  luminous  winter  of  Egypt. 

Here  and  there  amongst  the  outspread  fields 
are  villages  buried  under  the  thick  foliage  of 
trees — under  acacias  which,  in  the  distance,  re- 
semble ours  at  home;  beyond  indeed  the  moun- 
tain chain  of  Libya,  like  a wall  confining  the 
fertile  fields,  looks  strange  perhaps  in  its  rose- 

131 


132  Egypt 

colour,  and  too  desolate ; but,  nevertheless,  amidst 
this  glad  music  of  the  fields,  these  songs  of  larks 
and  twitterings  of  sparrows,  you  scarcely  realise 
that  you  are  in  a foreign  land. 

Abydos!  what  magic  there  is  in  the  name! 
“ Abydos  is  at  hand,  and  in  another  moment  we 
shall  be  there.”  The  mere  words  seem  somehow 
to  transform  the  aspect  of  the  homely  green 
fields,  and  make  this  pastoral  region  almost  im- 
posing. The  buzzing  of  the  flies  increases  in 
the  overheated  air  and  the  song  of  the  birds  sub- 
sides until  at  last  it  dies  away  in  the  approach 
of  noon. 

We  have  been  journeying  a little  more  than 
an  hour  amongst  the  verdure  of  the  growing 
corn  that  lies  upon  the  fields  like  a carpet,  when 
suddenly,  beyond  the  little  houses  and  trees  of 
a village,  quite  a different  world  is  disclosed — 
the  familiar  world  of  glare  and  death  which 
presses  so  closely  upon  inhabited  Egypt:  the 
desert!  the  desert  of  Libya,  and  now  as  ever 
when  we  come  upon  it  suddenly  from  the  banks 
of  the  old  river,  it  rises  up  before  us;  beginning 
at  once,  without  transition,  absolute  and  ter- 
rible, as  soon  as  we  leave  the  thick  velvet  of  the 
last  field,  the  cool  shade  of  the  last  acacia.  Its 
sands  seem  to  slope  towards  us,  in  a prodigious 
incline,  from  the  strange  mountains  that  we  saw 
from  the  happy  plain,  and  which  now  appear. 


A Charming  Luncheon  133 

enthroned  beyond,  like  the  monarchs  of  all  this 
nothingness. 

The  town  of  Abydos,  which  has  vanished  and 
left  no  wrack  behind,  rose  once  in  this  spot 
where  we  now  stand,  on  the  very  threshold  of 
the  solitudes;  but  its  necropoles,  more  venerated 
even  than  those  of  Memphis,  and  its  thrice-holy 
temples,  are  a little  farther  on,  in  the  marvel- 
lously conserving  sand,  which  has  buried  them 
under  its  tireless  waves  and  preserved  them 
almost  intact  up  till  the  present  day. 

The  desert!  As  soon  as  we  put  foot  upon  its 
shifting  soil,  which  smothers  the  sound  of  our 
steps,  the  atmosphere  too  seems  suddenly  to 
change;  it  burns  with  a strange  new  heat,  as  if 
great  fires  had  been  lighted  in  the  neighbourhood. 

And  this  whole  domain  of  light  and  drought, 
right  away  into  the  distance,  is  shaded  and 
streaked  with  the  familiar  bro^vn,  red  and  yellow 
colours.  The  mournful  reflection  of  adjacent 
things  augments  to  excess  the  heat  and  light. 
The  horizon  trembles  under  the  little  vapours 
of  mirage  like  water  ruffled  by  the  wind.  The 
background,  which  mounts  gradually  to  the  foot 
of  the  Libyan  mountains,  is  strewn  with  the 
debris  of  bricks  and  stones  — shapeless  ruins 
which,  though  they  scarcely  rise  above  the  sand, 
abound  nevertheless  in  great  numbers,  and  serve 
to  remind  us  that  here  indeed  is  a very  ancient 


13+  Egypt 

soil,  where  men  laboured  in  centuries  that  have 
drifted  out  of  knowledge.  One  divines  instinc- 
tively and  at  once  the  catacombs,  the  hypogea 
and  the  mummies  that  lie  beneath! 

These  necropoles  of  Abydos  once — and  for 
thousands  of  years — exercised  an  extraordinary 
fascination  over  this  people — the  precursor  of 
peoples — who  dwelt  in  the  valley  of  the  Nile. 
According  to  one  of  the  most  ancient  of  human 
traditions,  the  head  of  Osiris,  the  lord  of  the 
other  world,  reposed  in  the  depths  of  one  of  the 
temples  which  to-day  are  buried  in  the  sands. 
And  men,  as  soon  as  their  thought  commenced 
to  issue  from  the  primeval  night,  were  haunted 
by  the  idea  that  there  were  localities  helpful,  as 
it  were,  to  the  poor  corpses  that  lay  beneath 
the  earth,  that  there  were  certain  holy  places 
where  it  behoved  them  to  be  buried  if  they 
wished  to  be  ready  when  the  signal  of  awakening 
was  given.  And  in  old  Egypt,  therefore,  each 
one,  at  the  hour  of  death,  turned  his  thoughts 
to  these  stones  and  sands,  in  the  ardent  hope 
that  he  might  be  able  to  sleep  near  the  remains 
of  his  god.  And  when  the  place  was  becoming 
crowded  with  sleepers,  those  who  could  obtain 
no  place  there  conceived  the  idea  of  having 
humble  obelisks  planted  on  the  holy  ground, 
which  at  least  should  tell  their  names;  or  even 
recommended  that  their  mummies  might  lie 


A Charming  Luncheon  135 

there  for  some  weeks,  even  if  they  were  after- 
wards removed.  And  thus,  funeral  processions 
passed  to  and  fro  without  ceasing  through  the 
cornfields  that  separate  the  Nile  from  the  desert. 
Abydos!  In  the  sad  human  dream  dominated 
by  the  thought  of  dissolution,  Abydos  preceded 
by  many  centuries  the  Valley  of  Jehosophat  of 
the  Hebrews,  the  cemeteries  around  Mecca  of  the 
INIoslems,  and  the  holy  tombs  beneath  our  oldest 
cathedrals ! . . . Abydos ! It  behoves  us  to  walk 
here  pensively  and  silently  out  of  respect  for  all 
those  thousands  of  souls  who  formerly  turned 
towards  this  place,  with  outstretched  hands,  in 
the  hour  of  death. 

The  first  great  temple — that  which  King  Seti 
raised  to  the  mysterious  Prince  of  the  Other 
World,  who  in  those  days  was  called  Osiris — is 
quite  close — a distance  of  little  more  than  200 
yards  in  the  glare  of  the  desert.  We  come 
upon  it  suddenly,  so  that  it  almost  startles  us, 
for  nothing  warns  us  of  its  proximity.  The 
sand  from  which  it  has  been  exhumed,  and  which 
buried  it  for  2000  years,  still  rises  almost  to  its 
roof.  Through  an  iron  gate,  guarded  by  two 
tall  Bedouin  guards  in  black  robes,  we  plunge 
at  once  into  the  shadow  of  enormous  stones. 
We  are  in  the  house  of  the  god,  in  a forest  of 
heavy  Osiridean  columns,  surrounded  by  a world 
of  people  in  high  coiffures,  carved  in  bas-relief 


136  Egypt 

on  the  pillars  and  walls — people  who  seem  to 
be  signalling  one  to  another  and  exchanging 
amongst  themselves  mysterious  signs,  silently 
and  for  ever. 

But  what  is  this  noise  in  the  sanctuary?  It 
seems  to  be  full  of  people.  There,  sure  enough, 
beyond  a second  row  of  columns,  is  quite  a little 
crowd  talking  loudly  in  English.  I fancy  that 
I can  hear  the  clinking  of  glasses  and  the  tap- 
ping of  knives  and  forks. 

Oh!  poor,  poor  temple,  to  what  strange  uses 
are  you  come.  . . . This  excess  of  grotesqueness 
in  profanation  is  more  insulting  surely  than  to 
be  sacked  by  barbarians!  Behold  a table  set  for 
some  thirty  guests,  and  the  guests  themselves — 
of  both  sexes — merry  and  lighthearted,  belong  to 
that  special  type  of  humanity  which  patronises 
Thomas  Cook  & Son  (Egypt  Ltd.) . They  wear 
cork  helmets,  and  the  classic  green  spectacles; 
drink  whisky  and  soda,  and  eat  voraciously 
sandwiches  and  other  viands  out  of  greasy 
paper,  which  now  litters  the  floor.  And  the 
women!  Heavens!  what  scarecrows  they  are! 
And  this  kind  of  thing,  so  the  black-robed 
Bedouin  guards  inform  us,  is  repeated  every 
day  so  long  as  the  season  lasts.  A luncheon  in 
the  temple  of  Osiris  is  part  of  the  programme  of 
pleasure  trips.  Each  day  at  noon  a new  band 
arrives,  on  heedless  and  unfortunate  donkeys. 


A Charming  Luncheon  137 

The  tables  and  the  crockery  remain,  of  course, 
in  the  old  temple! 

Let  us  escape  quickly,  if  possible  before  the 
sight  shall  have  become  graven  on  our  memory. 

But  alas!  even  when  we  are  outside,  alone 
again  on  the  expanse  of  dazzling  sands,  we  can 
no  longer  take  things  seriously.  Abydos  and 
the  desert  have  ceased  to  exist.  The  faces  of 
those  women  remain  to  haunt  us,  their  faces  and 
their  hats,  and  those  looks  which  they  vouchsafed 
us  from  over  their  solar  spectacles.  . . . The 
ugliness  associated  with  the  name  of  Cook  was 
once  explained  to  me  in  this  wise,  and  the 
explanation  at  first  sight  seemed  satisfactory: 
“ The  United  Kingdom,  justifiably  jealous  of 
the  beauty  of  its  daughters,  submits  them  to  a 
jury  when  they  reach  the  age  of  puberty;  and 
those  who  are  classed  'as  too  ugly  to  reproduce 
their  kind  are  accorded  an  imlimited  account 
at  Thomas  Cook  & Sons,  and  thus  vowed  to  a 
course  of  perpetual  travel,  which  leaves  them 
no  time  to  think  of  certain  trifles  incidental  to 
life.”  The  explanation,  as  I say,  seduced  me  for 
the  time  being.  But  a more  attentive  examina- 
tion of  the  bands  who  infest  the  valley  of  the 
Nile  enables  me  to  aver  that  all  these  good 
English  ladies  are  of  an  age  notoriously  canon- 
ical: and  the  catastrophe  of  procreation,  there- 
fore, supposing  that  such  an  accident  could  ever 


138  Egypt 

have  happened  to  them,  must  date  back  to  a time 
long  anterior  to  their  enrolment.  And  I remain 
perplexed ! 

Without  conviction  now,  we  make  our  way 
towards  another  temple,  guaranteed  solitary.  In- 
deed the  sun  blazes  there  a lonely  sovereign  in 
the  midst  of  a profound  silence,  and  Egypt  and 
the  past  take  us  again  into  their  folds. 

Once  more  to  Osiris,  the  god  of  heavenly 
awakening  in  the  necropolis  of  Abydos,  this 
sanctuary  was  built  by  Ramses  II.  But  the 
sands  have  covered  it  with  their  winding  sheet 
in  vain,  and  have  been  able  to  preserve  for  us 
only  the  lower  and  more  deeply  buried  parts. 
Men  in  their  blind  greed  have  destroyed  the 
upper  portions,^  and  its  ruins,  protected  and 
cleared  as  they  are  to-day,  rise  only  some  ten 
or  twelve  feet  from  the  ground.  In  the  bas- 
reliefs  the  majority  of  the  figures  have  only 
legs  and  a portion  of  the  body;  their  heads 
and  shoulders  have  disappeared  with  the  upper 
parts  of  the  walls.  But  they  seem  to  have 
preserved  their  vitality:  the  gesticulations,  the 
exaggerated  pantomime  of  the  attitudes  of  these 
headless  things,  are  more  strange,  more  striking, 

^ Not  long  ago  a manufacturer,  established  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, discovering  that  the  limestone  of  its  walls  was  friable, 
used  this  temple  as  a quarry,  and  for  some  years  bas-reliefs 
beyond  price  served  as  aliment  to  the  mills  of  the  factory. 


A Charming  Luncheon  139 

perhaps,  than  if  their  faces  still  remained.  And 
they  have  preserved  too,  in  an  extraordinary 
degree,  the  brightness  of  their  antique  paintings, 
the  fresh  tints  of  their  costumes,  of  their  robes 
of  turquoise  blue,  or  lapis,  or  emerald-green,  or 
golden-yellow.  It  is  an  artless  kind  of  fresco- 
work,  which  nevertheless  amazes  us  by  remain- 
mg  perfect  after  thirty-five  centuries.  All  that 
these  people  did  seems  as  if  made  for  immortal- 
ity. It  is  true,  however,  that  such  brilliant  col- 
ours are  not  found  in  any  of  the  other  Pharaonic 
monuments,  and  that  here  they  are  heightened 
by  the  white  background.  For,  notwithstanding 
the  bluish,  black  and  red  granite  of  the  porticoes, 
the  walls  are  all  of  a fine  limestone,  of  exceeding 
whiteness,  and,  in  the  holy  of  holies,  of  a pure 
alabaster. 

Above  the  truncated  walls,  with  their  bright 
clear  colours,  the  desert  appears,  and  shows  quite 
brown  by  contrast;  one  sees  the  great  yellow 
swell  of  sand  and  stones  above  the  pictures  of 
these  decapitated  people.  It  rises  like  a colossal 
wave  and  stretches  out  to  bathe  the  foot  of  the 
Libyan  mountains  beyond.  Towards  the  north 
and  west  of  the  solitudes,  shapeless  ruins  of 
tawny-coloured  blocks  follow  one  another  in  the 
sands  until  the  dazzling  distance  ends  in  a clear- 
cut  line  against  the  sky.  Apart  from  this  tem- 
ple of  Ramses,  where  we  now  stand,  and  that 


140  Egypt 

of  Seti  in  the  vicinity,  where  the  enterprise  of 
Thomas  Cook  & Son  flourishes,  there  is  nothing 
around  us  but  ruins,  crumbled  and  pulverised 
beyond  all  possible  redemption.  But  they  give 
us  pause,  these  disappearing  ruins,  for  they  are 
the  debris  of  that  ageless  temple,  where  sleeps 
the  head  of  the  god,  the  debris  of  the  tombs  of 
the  Middle  and  Ancient  Empires,  and  they  indi- 
cate still  the  wide  extent  and  development  of  the 
necropoles  of  Abydos,  so  old  that  it  almost  makes 
one  giddy  to  think  of  their  beginning. 

Here,  as  at  Thebes  and  Memphis,  the  tombs 
of  the  Egyptians  are  met  with  only  amongst 
the  sands  and  the  parched  rocks.  The  great 
ancestral  people,  who  would  have  shuddered  at 
our  black  trees,  and  the  corruption  of  the  damp 
graves,  liked  to  place  its  embalmed  dead  in  the 
midst  of  this  luminous,  changeless  splendour  of 
death,  which  men  call  the  desert. 

• •••••• 

And  what  is  this  now  that  is  happening  in 
the  holy  neighbourhood  of  mihappy  Osiris?  A 
troupe  of  donkeys,  belaboured  by  Bedouin 
drivers,  is  being  driven  in  the  direction  of  the 
adjacent  temple,  dedicated  to  the  god  by  Seti! 
The  luncheon  no  doubt  is  over  and  the  band 
about  to  depart,  sharp  to  the  appointed  hour 
of  the  programme.  Let  us  watch  them  from  a 
prudent  distance. 


A Charming  Luncheon  14 1 

To  be  brief,  they  all  mount  into  their  saddles, 
these  Cooks  and  Cookesses,  and  opening,  not 
without  a conscious  air  of  majesty,  their  white 
cotton  parasols,  take  themselves  off  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Nile.  They  disappear  and  the  place 
belongs  to  us. 

When  we  venture  at  last  to  return  to  the  first 
sanctuary,  where  they  had  lunched  their  fill 
in  the  shade,  the  guardians  are  busy  clearing 
away  the  leavings  and  the  dirty  paper.  And 
they  pack  the  dubious  crockery,  which  will  be 
required  for  to-morrow’s  luncheon,  into  large 
chests  on  which  may  be  read  in  large  letters  of 
glory  the  names  of  the  veritable  sovereigns  of 
modern  Egypt:  “ Thomas  Cook  & Son  (Egypt 
Ltd.).” 

All  this  happily  ends  with  the  first  hypost5de. 
Nothing  dishonours  the  halls  of  the  interior, 
where  silence  has  again  descended,  the  vast 
silence  of  the  noon  of  the  desert. 

In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Tiberius,  men 
already  maiwelled  at  this  temple,  as  at  a relic  of 
the  most  distant  and  nebulous  past.  The  geog- 
rapher Strabo  wrote  in  those  days : “ It  is  an 
admirable  palace  built  in  the  fashion  of  the 
Labyrinth  save  that  it  has  fewer  galleries.” 
There  are  galleries  enough  however,  and  one  can 
readily  lose  oneself  in  its  mazy  turnings.  Seven 
chapels,  consecrated  to  Osiris  and  to  different 


142  Egypt 

gods  and  goddesses  of  his  suite;  seven  vaulted 
chambers;  seven  doors  for  the  processions  of 
kings  and  multitudes;  and,  at  the  sides,  num- 
berless halls,  corridors,  secondary  chapels,  dark 
chambers  and  hidden  doorways.  That  very 
primitive  column,  suggestive  of  reeds,  which  is 
called  in  architecture  the  “ plant  column  ” and 
resembles  a monstrous  stem  of  the  papyrus,  rises 
here  in  a thick  forest,  to  support  the  stones  of 
the  blue  ceilings,  which  are  strewn  with  stars,  in 
the  likeness  of  the  sky  of  this  country.  In  many 
cases  these  stones  are  missing  and  leave  large 
openings  on  to  the  real  sky  above.  Their 
massiveness,  which  one  might  have  thought 
would  secure  them  an  endless  duration,  has 
availed  them  nothing;  the  sun  of  so  many 
centuries  has  cracked  them,  and  their  own 
weight,  then,  has  brought  them  headlong  to 
the  ground.  And  floods  of  light  now  enter 
through  the  gaps,  into  the  very  chapels  where 
the  men  of  old  had  thought  to  ensure  a holy 
gloom. 

Despite  the  disaster  which  has  overtaken  the 
ceilings,  this  is  nevertheless  one  of  the  most 
perfect  of  the  sanctuaries  of  ancient  Egypt. 
The  sands,  those  gentle  sextons,  have  here  suc- 
ceeded miraculously  in  their  work  of  preserva- 
tion. They  might  have  been  carved  yesterday, 
these  innumerable  people,  v/ho,  everywhere — on 


A Charming  Luncheon  143 

the  walls,  on  this  forest  of  columns — gesticulate 
and,  with  their  arms  and  long  hands,  continue 
with  animation  their  eternal  mute  conversation. 
The  whole  temple,  with  the  openings  which 
give  it  light,  is  more  beautiful  perhaps  than 
in  the  time  of  the  Pharaohs.  In  place  of  the 
old-time  darkness,  a transparent  gloom  now 
alternates  with  shafts  of  sunlight.  Here  and 
there  the  subjects  of  the  bas-reliefs,  so  long 
buried  in  the  darkness,  are  deluged  with  burning 
rays  which  detail  their  attitudes,  their  muscles, 
their  scarcely  altered  colours,  and  endow  them 
again  with  life  and  youth.  There  is  no  part  of 
the  wall,  in  this  immense  place,  but  is  covered 
with  divinities,  with  hieroglyphs  and  emblems. 
Osiris  in  high  coiffure,  the  beautiful  Isis  in  the 
helmet  of  a bird,  jackal-headed  Anubis,  falcon- 
headed Horus,  and  ibis-headed  Thoth  are  re- 
peated a thousand  times,  welcoming  with  strange 
gestures  the  kings  and  priests  who  are  rendering 
them  homage. 

The  bodies,  almost  nude,  with  broad  shoulders 
and  slim  waist,  have  a slenderness,  a grace, 
infinitely  chaste,  and  the  features  of  the  faces 
are  of  an  exquisite  purity.  The  artists  who 
carved  these  charming  heads,  with  their  long 
eyes,  full  of  the  ancient  dream,  were  already 
skilled  in  their  art;  but  through  a deficiency, 
which  puzzles  us,  they  were  only  able  to  draw 


144  Egypt 

them  in  profile.  All  the  legs,  aU  the  feet  are 
in  profile  too,  although  the  bodies,  on  the 
other  hand,  face  us  fully.  Men  needed  yet  some 
centmies  of  study  before  they  understood  per- 
spective— which  to  us  now  seems  so  simple — 
and  the  foreshortening  of  figures,  and  were  able 
to  render  the  impression  of  them  on  a plane 
surface. 

Many  of  the  pictures  represent  King  Seti, 
drawn  without  doubt  from  life,  for  they  show 
us  almost  the  very  features  of  his  mummy,  ex- 
hibited now  in  the  museum  at  Cairo.  At  his 
side  he  holds  affectionately  his  son,  the  prince- 
royal,  Ramses  (later  on  Ramses  II.,  the  great 
Sesostris  of  the  Greeks).  They  have  given  the 
latter  quite  a frank  air,  and  he  wears  a curl  on 
the  side  of  his  head,  as  was  the  fashion  then  in 
childhood.  He,  also,  has  his  mummy  in  a glass 
case  in  the  museum,  and  anyone  who  has  seen 
that  toothless,  sinister  wreck,  who  had  already 
attained  the  age  of  nearly  a hundred  years 
before  death  delivered  him  to  the  embalmers  of 
Thebes,  will  find  it  difficult  to  believe  that  he 
could  ever  have  been  young,  and  worn  his  hair 
curled  so;  that  he  could  even  have  played  and 
been  a child. 

• •••••* 

We  thought  we  had  finished  with  the  Cooks 
and  Cookesses  of  the  luncheon.  But  alas!  our 


A Charming  Luncheon  14.5 

horses,  faster  than  their  donkeys,  overtake  them 
in  the  return  journey  amongst  the  green  corn- 
fields of  Abydos;  and  in  a stoppage  in  the 
narrow  roadway,  caused  by  a meeting  with  a 
number  of  camels  laden  with  lucerne,  we  are 
brought  to  a halt  in  their  midst.  Almost 
touching  me  is  a dear  little  white  donkey,  who 
looks  at  me  pensively  and  in  such  a way  that 
we  at  once  understand  one  another.  A mutual 
sympathy  unites  us.  A Cookess  in  spectacles 
surmounts  him — the  most  hideous  of  them  all, 
bony  and  severe.  Over  her  travelling  costume, 
already  sufficiently  repulsive,  she  wears  a tennis 
jersey,  which  accentuates  the  angularity  of  her 
figure,  and  in  her  person  she  seems  the  very 
incarnation  of  the  respectability  of  the  British 
Isles.  It  would  be  more  equitable,  too — so  long 
are  those  legs  of  hers,  which,  to  be  sure,  have 
scant  interest  for  the  tourist — if  she  carried  the 
donkey. 

The  poor  little  white  thing  regards  me  with 
melancholy.  His  ears  twitch  restlessly  and  his 
beautiful  eyes,  so  fine,  so  observant  of  every- 
thing, say  to  me  as  plain  as  words: 

“ She  is  a beauty,  isn’t  she?  ” 

“ She  is,  indeed,  my  poor  little  donkey.  But 
think  of  this:  fixed  on  thy  back  as  she  is,  thou 
hast  this  advantage  over  me — thou  seest  her 
not!” 


1+6  Egypt 

But  my  reflection,  though  judicious  enough, 
does  not  console  him,  and  his  look  answers  me 
that  he  would  be  much  prouder  if  he  carried,  like 
so  many  of  his  comrades,  a simple  pack  of  sugar- 


canes. 


THE  DOWNFALL 
OF  THE  NILE 


i 


CHAPTER  XI 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  THE  NILE 

Some  thousands  of  years  ago,  at  the  beginning 
of  our  geological  period,  when  the  continents 
had  taken,  in  the  last  great  upheaval,  almost  the 
forms  by  which  we  now  know  them,  and  when 
the  rivers  began  to  trace  their  hesitating  courses, 
it  happened  that  the  rains  of  a whole  watershed 
of  Africa  were  precipitated  in  one  formidable 
torrent  across  the  uninhabitable  region  which 
stretches  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Indian  Ocean, 
and  is  called  the  region  of  the  deserts.  And 
this  enormous  waterway,  lost  as  it  was  in  the 
sands,  by-and-by  regulated  its  course:  it  became 
the  Nile,  and  with  untiring  patience  set  itself  to 
its  proper  task  of  river,  which  in  this  accursed 
zone  might  well  have  seemed  an  impossible  one. 
First  it  had  to  round  all  the  blocks  of  granite 
scattered  in  its  way  in  the  high  plains  of  Nubia; 
and  then,  and  more  especially,  to  deposit,  little 
by  little,  successive  layers  of  mud,  to  form  a 
living  artery,  to  create,  as  it  were,  a long,  green 
ribbon  in  the  midst  of  this  infinite  domain  of 
death. 

How  long  ago  is  it  since  the  work  of  the  great 
149 


^ O'" 


river  began?  There  is  something  fearful  in  the 
thought.  During  the  5000  years  of  which  we 
have  any  knowledge  the  incessant  deposit  of 
mud  has  scarcely  widened  this  strip  of  inhabited 
Egypt,  which  at  the  most  ancient  period  of 
history  was  almost  as  it  is  to-day.  And  as  for 
the  granite  blocks  on  the  plains  of  Nubia,  how 
many  thousands  of  years  did  it  need  to  roll  them 
and  to  polish  them  thus?  In  the  times  of  the 
Pharaohs  they  already  had  their  present  rounded 
fonns,  worn  smooth  by  the  friction  of  the  water, 
and  the  hieroglyphic  inscriptions  on  their  surfaces 
are  not  perceptibly  effaced,  though  they  have 
suffered  the  periodical  inundation  of  the  summer 
for  some  forty  or  fifty  centuries! 

It  was  an  exceptional  country,  this  valley  of 
the  Nile;  marvellous  and  unique;  fertile  without 
rain,  watered  according  to  its  need  by  the  great 
river,  without  the  help  of  any  cloud.  It  knew 
not  the  dull  days  and  the  hiunidity  under  which 
we  suffer,  but  kept  always  the  changeless  sky  of 
the  immense  surrounding  deserts,  which  exhaled 
no  vapour  that  might  dim  the  horizon.  It  was 
this  eternal  splendom*  of  its  light,  no  doubt,  and 
this  easiness  of  life,  which  brought  forth  here 
the  first  fruits  of  human  thought.  This  same 
Nile,  after  having  so  patiently  created  the  soil 
of  Egypt,  became  also  the  father  of  that  people, 
which  led  the  way  for  all  the  others — like  those 


The  Downfall  of  the  Nile  15 1 

early  branches  that  one  sees  in  spring,  which 
shoot  first  from  the  stem,  and  sometimes  die  be- 
fore the  summer.  It  nursed  that  people,  whose 
least  vestiges  we  discover  to-day  with  surprise 
and  wonder;  a people  who,  in  the  very  dawn,  in 
the  midst  of  the  original  barbarity,  conceived 
magnificently  the  infinite  and  the  divine;  who 
placed  with  such  certainty  and  grandeur  the  first 
architectural  lines,  from  which  afterwards  our 
architecture  w£us  to  be  derived ; who  laid  the  bases 
of  art,  of  science,  and  of  all  knowledge. 

Later  on,  when  this  beautiful  flower  of  human- 
ity was  faded,  the  Nile,  flowing  always  in  the 
midst  of  its  deserts,  seems  to  have  had  for  mission, 
during  nearly  two  thousand  years,  the  mainte- 
nance on  its  banks  of  a kind  of  immobility  and 
desuetude,  which  was  in  a way  a homage  of  re- 
spect for  these  stupendous  relics.  While  the  sand 
was  burying  the  ruins  of  the  temples  and  the  bat- 
tered faces  of  the  colossi,  nothing  changed  under 
this  sky  of  changeless  blue.  The  same  cultivation 
proceeded  on  the  banks  as  in  the  oldest  ages ; the  1 
same  boats,  with  the  same  sails,  went  up  and  down 
the  thread  of  water;  the  same  songs  kept  time 
to  the  eternal  human  toil.  The  race  of  fellahs, 
the  unconscious  guardian  of  a prodigious  past, 
slept  on  without  desire  of  change,  and  almost 
without  suffering.  And  time  passed  for  Egypt 
in  a great  peace  of  sunlight  and  of  death. 


152  Egypt 

But  to-day  the  foreigners  are  masters  here, 
and  have  wakened  the  old  Nile — wakened  to 
enslave  it.  In  less  than  twenty  years  they 
have  disfigured  its  valley,  which  until  then  had 
preseiwed  itself  like  a sanctuary.  They  have 
silenced  its  cataracts,  captured  its  precious  water 
by  dams,  to  pour  it  afar  off  on  plains  that  are 
become  like  marshes  and  already  sully  with  their 
mists  the  crystal  clearness  of  the  sky.  The 
ancient  rigging  no  longer  suffices  to  water  the 
land  under  cultivation.  INIachines  worked  by 
steam,  which  draw  the  water  more  quickly, 
commence  to  rise  along  the  banks,  side  by  side 
with  new  factories.  Soon  there  will  scarcely  be 
a river  more  dishonoured  than  this,  by  iron 
chimneys  and  thick,  black  smoke.  And  it  is 
happening  apace,  this  exploitation  of  the  Nile — 
hastily,  greedily,  as  in  a hunt  for  spoils.  Aoid 
thus  all  its  beauty  disappears,  for  its  monotonous 
course,  through  regions  endlessly  alike,  won  us 
only  by  its  calm  and  its  old-world  mystery. 

Poor  Nile  of  the  prodigies!  One  feels  some- 
times still  its  departing  charm,  stray  corners  of 
it  remain  intact.  There  are  days  of  transcendent 
clearness,  incomparable  evenings,  when  one  may 
still  forget  the  ugliness  and  the  smoke.  But  the 
classic  expedition  by  dahabiya,  the  ascent  of  the 
river  from  Cairo  to  Nubia,  will  soon  have  ceased 
to  be  worth  making. 


The  Downfall  of  the  Nile  153 

Ordinarily  this  voyage  is  made  in  the  winter, 
so  that  the  traveller  may  follow  the  course  of  the 
sun  as  it  makes  its  escape  towards  the  southern 
hemisphere.  The  water  then  is  low  and  the 
valley  parched.  Leaving  the  cosmopolitan  town 
of  modern  Cairo,  the  iron  bridges,  and  the  pre- 
tentious hotels,  with  their  flaunting  inscriptions, 
it  imparts  a sense  of  sudden  peacefulness  to  pass 
along  the  large  and  rapid  waters  of  this  river, 
between  the  curtains  of  palm-trees  on  the  hanks, 
borne  by  a dahabiya  where  one  is  master  and,  if 
one  likes,  may  be  alone. 

At  first,  for  a day  or  two,  the  great  haunting 
triangles  of  the  pyramids  seem  to  follow  you, 
those  of  Dashur  and  that  of  Sakkarah  succeeding 
to  those  of  Gizeh.  For  a long  time  the  horizon 
is  disturbed  by  their  gigantic  silhouettes.  As 
we  recede  from  them,  and  they  disengage  them- 
selves better  from  neighbouring  things,  they 
seem,  as  happens  in  the  case  of  mountains,  to 
grow  higher.  And  when  they  have  Anally  dis- 
appeared, we  have  still  to  ascend  slowly  and  by 
stages  some  six  hundred  miles  of  river  before  we 
reach  the  first  cataract.  Our  way  lies  through 
monotonous  desert  regions  where  the  hours  and 
days  are  marked  chiefly  by  the  variations  of  the 
wonderful  light.  Except  for  the  phantasmagoria 
of  the  mornings  and  evenings,  there  is  no  out- 
standing feature  on  these  dull-coloured  banks, 


15+  Egypt 

where  may  be  seen,  with  never  a change  at  all, 
the  humble  pastoral  life  of  the  fellahs.  The  sun 
is  burning,  the  starlit  nights  clear  and  cold.  A 
withering  wind,  which  blows  almost  without 
ceasing  from  the  north,  makes  you  shiver  as 
soon  as  the  twilight  falls. 

One  may  travel  for  league  after  league  along 
this  slim)’’  water  and  make  head  for  days  and 
weeks  against  its  current — which  glides  ever- 
lastingly past  the  dahabiya,  in  little  hurrying 
waves — ^without  seeing  this  warm,  fecundating 
river,  compared  with  which  our  rivers  of  France 
are  mere  negligible  streams,  either  diminish  or 
increase  or  hasten.  And  on  the  right  and  left 
of  us  as  we  pass  are  unfolded  indefinitely  the 
two  parallel  chains  of  barren  limestone,  which 
imprison  so  narrowly  the  Egypt  of  the  harvests: 
on  the  west  that  of  the  Libyan  desert,  which 
every  morning  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  tint  with 
a rosy  coral  that  nothing  seems  to  dull;  and  in 
the  east  that  of  the  desert  of  Arabia,  which 
never  fails  in  the  evening  to  retain  the  light  of 
the  setting  sun,  and  looks  then  like  a mournful 
girdle  of  glowing  embers.  Sometimes  the  two 
parallel  walls  sheer  off  and  give  more  room  to  the 
green  fields,  to  the  woods  of  palm-trees,  and  the 
little  oases,  separated  by  streaks  of  golden  sand. 
Sometimes  they  approach  so  closely  to. the  Nile 
that  habitable  Egypt  is  no  wider  than  some  two 


The  Downfall  of  the  Nile  155 

or  three  poor  fields  of  com,  lying  right  on  the 
water’s  edge,  behind  which  the  dead  stones  and 
the  dead  sands  commence  at  once.  And  some- 
times, even,  the  desert  chain  closes  in  so  as  to 
overhang  the  river  with  its  reddish-white  cliffs, 
which  no  rain  ever  comes  to  freshen,  and  in 
which,  at  different  heights,  gape  the  square  holes 
leading  to  the  habitations  of  the  mummies. 
These  mountains,  which  in  the  distance  look  so 
beautiful  in  their  rose-colour,  and  make,  as  it 
were,  interminable  back-cloths  to  all  that  hap- 
pens on  the  river  banks,  were  perforated,  during 
some  5000  years,  for  the  introduction  of  sarco- 
phagi and  now  they  swarm  with  old  dead 
bodies. 

And  all  that  passes  on  the  banks,  indeed, 
changes  as  little  as  the  background. 

First  there  is  that  gesture,  supple  and  superb, 
but  always  the  same,  of  the  women  in  their  long 
black  robes  who  come  without  ceasing  to  fill 
their  long-necked  jars  and  carry  them  away 
balanced  on  their  veiled  heads.  Then  the  flocks 
which  shepherds,  draped  in  mourning,  bring  to 
the  river  to  drink,  goats  and  sheep  and  asses  all 
mixed  up  together.  And  then  the  buffaloes, 
massive  and  mud-coloured,  who  descend  calmly 
to  bathe.  And,  finally,  the  great  labour  of  the 
watering : the  traditional  noria,  turned  by  a little 
bull  with  bandaged  eyes  and,  above  all,  the 


156  Egypt 

shaduf,  worked  by  men  whose  naked  bodies 
stream  with  the  cold  water. 

The  shaduf s follow  one  another  sometimes  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  see.  It  is  strange  to  watch 
the  movement — confused  in  the  distance — of  all 
these  long  rods  which  pump  the  water  without 
ceasing,  and  look  like  the  swaying  of  living 
antennse.  The  same  sight  was  to  be  seen  along 
this  river  in  the  times  of  the  Ramses.  But 
suddenly,  at  some  bend  of  the  river,  the  old 
Pharaonic  rigging  disappears,  to  give  place  to 
a succession  of  steam  machines,  which,  more 
even  than  the  muscles  of  the  fellahs,  are  busy  at 
the  water-drawing.  Before  long  their  blackish 
chimneys  will  make  a continuous  border  to  the 
tamed  Nile. 

Did  one  not  know  their  bearings,  the  great 
ruins  of  this  Egypt  would  pass  unnoticed.  With 
a few  rare  exceptions  they  lie  beyond  the  green 
plains  on  the  threshold  of  the  solitudes.  And 
against  the  changeless,  rose-coloured  background 
of  these  cliffs  of  the  desert,  which  follow  you 
during  the  whole  of  this  tranquil  navigation  of 
some  600  miles,  are  to  be  seen  only  the  humble 
towns  and  villages  of  to-day,  which  have  the 
neutral  colour  of  the  ground.  Some  openwork 
minarets  dominate  them — ^white  spots  above  the 
prevailing  dulness.  Clouds  of  pigeons  whirl 
round  in  the  neighbourhood.  And  amongst  the 


The  Downfall  of  the  Nile  157 

little  houses,  which  are  only  cubes  of  mud,  baked 
in  the  sun,  the  palm-trees  of  Africa,  either  singly 
or  in  mighty  clusters,  rise  superbly  and  cast  on 
these  little  habitations  the  shade  of  their  palms 
which  sway  in  the  wind.  Not  long  ago,  although 
indeed  everything  in  these  little  towns  was 
mournful  and  stagnant,  one  would  have  been 
tempted  to  stop  in  passing,  drawn  by  that  name- 
less peace  that  belonged  to  the  Old  East  and  to 
Islam.  But,  now,  before  the  smallest  hamlet — 
amongst  the  beautiful  primitive  boats,  that  still 
remain  in  great  numbers,  pointing  their  yards, 
like  very  long  reeds,  into  the  sky — there  is  always, 
for  the  meeting  of  the  tourist  boats,  an  enormous 
black  pontoon,  which  spoils  the  whole  scene  by 
its  presence  and  its  great  advertising  inscription: 
“Thomas  Cook  & Son  (Egypt  Ltd.).”  And, 
what  is  more,  one  hears  the  whistling  of  the  rail- 
way, which  runs  mercilessly  along  the  river, 
bringing  from  the  Delta  to  the  Soudan  the  hordes 
of  European  invaders.  And  to  crown  all,  ad- 
joining the  station  is  inevitably  some  modern 
factory,  throned  there  in  a sort  of  irony,  and 
dominating  the  poor  crumbling  things  that  still 
presume  to  tell  of  Egypt  and  of  mystery. 

And  so  now,  except  at  the  towns  or  villages 
which  lead  to  celebrated  ruins,  we  stop  no  longer. 
It  is  necessary  to  proceed  farther  and  for  the 
halt  of  the  night  to  seek  an  obscure  hamlet,  a 


158  Egypt 

silent  recess,  where  we  may  moor  our  dahabiya 
against  the  venerable  earth  of  the  bank. 

And  so  one  goes  on,  for  days  and  weeks, 
between  these  two  interminable  cliffs  of  reddish 
chalk,  filled  with  their  hypogea  and  mummies, 
which  are  the  walls  of  the  valley  of  the  Nile, 
and  will  follow  us  up  to  the  first  cataract,  until 
our  entrance  into  Nubia.  There  only  will  the 
appearance  and  nature  of  the  rocks  of  the  desert 
change,  to  become  the  more  sombre  granite 
out  of  which  the  Pharaohs  carved  theii’  obelisks 
and  the  great  figures  of  their  gods. 

We  go  on  and  on,  ascending  the  thread  of  this 
eternal  current,  and  the  regularity  of  the  wind, 
the  persistent  clearness  of  the  sky,  the  monotony 
of  the  great  river,  which  winds  but  never  ends, 
all  conspire  to  make  us  forget  the  hours  and  days 
that  pass.  However  deceived  and  disappointed 
we  may  be  at  seeing  the  profanation  of  the  river 
banks,  here,  nevertheless,  isolated  on  the  water, 
we  do  not  lose  the  peace  of  being  a wanderer,  a 
stranger  amongst  an  equipage  of  silent  Aj^abs, 
who  every  evening  prostrate  themselves  in  con- 
fiding prayer. 

And,  moreover,  we  are  moving  towards  the 
south,  towards  the  sun,  and  every  day  has  a more 
entrancing  clearness,  a more  caressing  warmth, 
and  the  bronze  of  the  faces  that  we  see  on  our 
way  takes  on  a deeper  tint. 


The  Downfall  of  the  Nile  159 

And  then  too  one  mixes  intimately  with  the 
life  of  the  river  bank,  which  is  still  so  absorbing 
and,  at  certain  hours,  when  the  horizon  is  un- 
sullied by  the  smoke  of  pit-coal,  recalls  you  to 
the  days  of  artless  toil  and  healthy  beauty.  In 
the  boats  that  meet  us,  half -naked  men,  revelling 
in  their  movement,  in  the  sun  and  air,  sing,  as 
they  ply  their  oars,  those  songs  of  the  Nile  that 
are  as  old  as  Thebes  or  Memphis.  When  the 
wind  rises  there  is  a riotous  unfurling  of  sails, 
which,  stretched  on  their  long  yards,  give  to 
the  dahabiyas  the  air  of  birds  in  full  flight. 
Bending  right  over  in  the  wind,  they  skim  along 
with  a lively  motion,  carrying  their  cargoes  of 
men  and  beasts  and  primitive  things.  Women 
are  there  draped  still  in  the  ancient  fashion,  and 
sheep  and  goats,  and  sometimes  piles  of  fruit 
and  gourds,  and  sacks  of  grain.  Many  are  laden 
to  the  water’s  edge  with  those  earthenware  jars, 
unchanged  for  3000  years,  which  the  fellaheens 
know  how  to  place  on  their  heads  with  so  much 
grace — and  one  sees  these  heaps  of  fragile  pottery 
gliding  along  the  water  as  if  carried  by  the 
gigantic  wings  of  a gull.  And  in  the  far-off,  al- 
most fabulous,  days  the  life  of  the  mariners  of  the 
Nile  had  the  same  aspect,  as  is  shown  by  the  bas- 
reliefs  on  the  oldest  tombs;  it  required  the  same 
play  of  muscles  and  of  sails;  was  accompanied 
no  doubt  by  the  same  songs,  and  was  subject  to 


i6o  Egypt 

the  withering  caress  of  this  same  desert  wind. 
And  then,  as  now,  the  same  unchanging  rose  col- 
oured the  continuous  curtain  of  the  mountains. 

But  all  at  once  there  is  a noise  of  machinery, 
and  whistlings,  and  in  the  air,  which  was  just 
now  so  pure,  rise  noxious  columns  of  black 
smoke.  The  modern  steamers  are  coming,  and 
throw  into  disorder  the  flotillas  of  the  past: 
colliers  that  leave  great  eddies  in  their  wake,  or 
perhaps  a wearisome  lot  of  those  three-decked 
tourist  boats,  which  make  a great  noise  as  they 
plough  the  water,  and  are  laden  for  the  most 
part  with  ugly  women,  snobs  and  imbeciles. 

Poor,  poor  Nile!  which  reflected  formerly  on 
its  warm  mirror  the  utmost  of  earthly  splendour, 
which  bore  in  its  time  so  many  barques  of  gods 
and  goddesses  in  procession  behind  the  golden 
barge  of  Amen,  and  knew  in  the  dawn  of  the 
ages  only  an  impeccable  purity,  alike  of  the 
human  form  and  of  architectural  design!  What 
a downfall  is  here!  To  be  awakened  from 
that  disdainful  sleep  of  twenty  centuries  and 
made  to  carry  the  floating  barracks  of  Thomas 
Cook  & Son,  to  feed  sugar  factories,  and  to  ex- 
haust itself  in  nourishing  with  its  mud  the  raw 
material  for  English  cotton-stuffs. 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE 
GODDESS  OF  LOVE  AND  JOY 


CHAPTER  XII 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  GODDESS  OF  LOVE 
AND  JOY 

It  is  the  month  of  March,  but  as  gay  and 
splendid  as  in  our  June.  Around  us  are  fields 
of  corn,  of  lucerne,  and  the  flowering  bean. 
And  the  air  is  full  of  restless  birds,  singing 
deliriously  for  very  joy  in  the  voluptuous  busi- 
ness of  their  nests  and  coveys.  Our  way  lies  over 
a fertile  soil,  saturated  with  vital  substances — 
some  paradise  for  beasts  no  doubt,  for  they  swarm 
on  every  side:  flocks  of  goats  with  a thousand 
bleating  kids;  she-asses  with  their  frisking 
young;  cows  and  cow-buffaloes  feeding  their 
calves;  all  turned  loose  among  the  crops,  to 
browse  at  their  leisure,  as  if  there  were  here  a 
superabundance  of  the  riches  of  the  soil. 

What  country  is  this  that  shows  no  sign  of 
human  habitation,  that  knows  no  village,  nor 
any  distant  spire?  The  crops  are  like  ours  at 
home — wheat,  lucerne,  and  the  flowering  bean 
that  perfumes  the  air  with  its  white  blossoms. 
But  there  is  an  excess  of  light  in  the  sky  and, 
in  the  distance,  an  extraordinary  clearness. 
And  then  these  fertile  plains,  that  might  be 
163 


1 6+  Egypt 

those  of  some  “ Promised  Land,”  seem  to  be 
bounded  far  away,  on  left  and  right,  by  two 
parallel  stone  walls,  two  chains  of  rose-coloured 
mountains,  whose  aspect  is  obviously  desertlike. 
Besides,  amongst  the  numerous  animals  that  are 
familiar,  there  are  camels,  feeding  their  strange 
nurslings  that  look  hke  four-legged  ostriches. 
And  finally  some  peasants  appear  beyond  in  the 
cornfields ; they  are  veiled  in  long  black  draperies. 
It  is  the  East  then,  an  African  land,  or  some 
oasis  of  Arabia? 

The  sun  at  this  moment  is  hidden  from  us 
by  a band  of  clouds,  that  stretches,  right  above 
our  head,  from  one  end  of  the  sky  to  the  other, 
like  a long  skein  of  white  wool.  It  is  alone  in 
the  blue  void,  and  seems  to  make  more  peaceful, 
and  even  a little  mysterious,  the  wonderful  light 
of  the  fields  w'e  traverse — these  fields  intoxicated 
with  life  and  vibrant  with  the  music  of  birds; 
while,  by  contrast,  the  distant  landscape,  un- 
shaded by  clouds,  is  resplendent  with  a more 
incisive  clearness  and  the  desert  beyond  seems 
deluged  with  rays. 

The  pathway  that  we  have  been  following,  ill 
defined  as  it  is  in  the  grassy  fields,  leads  us  at 
length  under  a large  ruinous  portico — a relic  of 
goodness  knows  what  olden  days — which  still 
rises  here,  quite  isolated,  altogether  strange  and 
unexpected,  in  the  midst  of  the  green  expanse 


Temple  of  the  Goddess  of  Love  165 

of  pasture  and  tillage.  We  had  seen  it  from 
a great  'distance,  so  pure  and  clear  is  the  air; 
and  in  approaching  it  we  perceive  that  it  is 
colossal,  and  in  relief  on  its  lintel  is  designed 
a globe  with  two  long  wings  outspread  sym- 
metrically. 

It  behoves  us  now  to  m.ake  obeisance  with 
almost  religious  reverence,  for  this  winged  disc 
is  a symbol  which  gives  at  length  an  indication 
of  the  place  immediate  and  absolute.  It  is 
Egj’^pt,  the  country — Egypt,  our  ancient  mother. 
And  there  before  us  must  once  have  stood  a 
temple  reverenced  of  the  people,  or  some  great 
vanished  town;  its  fragments  of  columns  and 
sculptured  capitals  are  strewn  about  in  the  fields 
of  lucerne.  How  inexplicable  it  seems  that 
this  land  of  ancient  splendours,  which  never 
ceased  indeed  to  be  nutritive  and  prodigiously 
fertile,  should  have  returned,  for  some  hundreds 
of  years  now,  to  the  humble  pastoral  life  of  the 
peasants. 

Through  the  green  crops  and  the  assembled 
herds  our  pathway  seems  to  lead  to  a kind  of  liill 
rising  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  plains — a hill 
which  is  neither  of  the  same  colour  nor  the  same 
nature  as  the  mountains  of  the  surrounding  des- 
erts. Behind  us  the  portico  recedes  little  by  lit- 
tle in  the  distance;  its  tall  imposing  silhouette, 
so  mournful  and  solitary,  throws  an  infinite  sad- 


1 66  Egypt 

ness  on  this  sea  of  meadows,  which  spread 
their  peace  where  once  was  a centre  of  mag- 
nificence. 

The  wind  now  rises  in  sharp,  lashing  gusts 
— the  wind  of  Egypt  that  never  seems  to  fall, 
and  is  bitter  and  wintry  for  all  the  burning  of 
the  sun.  The  growing  corn  bends  before  it, 
showing  the  gloss  of  its  young  quivering  leaves, 
and  the  herded  beasts  move  close  to  one  another 
and  turn  their  backs  to  the  squaU. 

As  we  draw  nearer  to  this  singular  hill  it  is 
revealed  as  a mass  of  ruins.  And  the  ruins  are 
all  of  a kind,  of  a brownish-red.  They  are  the  re- 
mains of  the  colonial  towns  of  the  Romans,  which 
subsisted  here  for  some  two  or  three  hundred 
years  (an  almost  negligible  moment  of  time  in 
the  long  history  of  Egypt),  and  then  fell  to 
pieces,  to  become  in  time  mere  shapeless  mounds 
on  the  fertile  margins  of  the  Nile  and  sometimes 
even  in  the  submerging  sands. 

A heap  of  little  reddish  bricks  that  once  were 
fashioned  into  houses;  a heap  of  broken  jars 
or  amphoree — myriads  of  them — that  served  to 
carry  the  water  from  the  old  nourishing  river; 
and  the  remains  of  walls,  repaired  at  diverse 
epochs,  where  stones  inscribed  with  hieroglyphs 
lie  upside  down  against  fragments  of  Grecian 
obelisks  or  Coptic  sculptures  or  Roman  capitals. 
In  our  countries,  where  the  past  is  of  yesterday, 


Temple  of  the  Goddess  of  Love  167 

we  have  nothing  resembling  such  a chaos  of  dead 
things. 

Nowadays  the  sanctuary  is  reached  through 
a large  cutting  in  this  hiU  of  ruins;  incredible 
heaps  of  bricks  and  broken  pottery  enclose  it  on 
all  sides  like  a jealous  rampart.  Until  recently 
indeed  they  covered  it  almost  to  its  roof.  From 
the  very  first  its  appearance  is  disconcerting:  it 
is  so  grand,  so  austere  and  gloomy.  A strange 
dwelling,  to  be  sure,  for  the  Goddess  of  Love  and 
Joy.  It  seems  more  fit  to  be  the  home  of  the 
Prince  of  Darkness  and  of  Death.  A severe 
doorway,  built  of  gigantic  stones  and  surmounted 
by  a winged  disc,  opens  on  to  an  asylum  of 
religious  mystery,  on  to  depths  where  massive 
columns  disappear  in  the  darkness  of  deep 
night. 

Immediately  on  entering  there  is  a coolness 
and  a resonance  as  of  a sepulchre.  First,  the 
pronaos,  where  we  still  see  clearly,  between 
pillars  carved  with  hieroglyphs.  Were  it  not 
for  the  large  human  faces  which  serve  for  the 
capitals  of  the  columns,  and  are  the  image  of  the 
lovely  Hathor,  the  goddess  of  the  place,  this 
temple  of  the  decadent  epoch  would  scarcely 
differ  from  those  built  in  this  country  two  thou- 
sand years  before.  It  has  the  same  square 
massiveness. 

And  in  the  dark  blue  ceilings  there  are  the 


i68 


Egypt 

same  frescoes,  filled  with  stars,  with  the  signs  of 
the  Zodiac,  and  series  of  winged  discs;  in  bas- 
relief  on  the  walls,  the  same  multitudinous  crowds 
of  people  who  gesticulate  and  make  signs  to 
one  another  with  their  hands — eternally  the  same 
mysterious  signs,  repeated  to  infinity,  everywhere 
— in  the  palaces,  the  hypogea,  the  syringes,  and 
on  the  sarcophagi  and  papyri  of  the  mummies. 

The  Memphite  and  Theban  temples,  whicK 
preceded  this  by  so  many  centuries,  and  far 
surpassed  it  in  grandeur,  have  all  lost,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  falling  of  the  enormous  granites 
of  their  roofs,  their  cherished  gloom,  and,  what  is 
the  same  thing,  their  religious  mystery.  But  in 
the  temple  of  the  lovely  Hathor,  on  the  con- 
trary, except  for  some  figures  mutilated  by  the 
hammers  of  Christians  or  Moslems,  everything 
has  remained  intact,  and  the  lofty  ceilings  still 
throw  their  fearsome  shadows. 

The  gloom  deepens  in  the  hypostyle  which 
follows  the  pronaos.  Then  come,  one  after 
another,  two  halls  of  increasing  holiness,  where 
the  daylight  enters  regretfully  through  narrow 
loopholes,  barely  lighting  the  superposed  rows  of 
innumerable  figures  that  gesticulate  on  the  walls. 
And  then,  after  other  majestic  corridors,  w'e  reach 
the  heart  of  this  heap  of  terrible  stones,  the  holy 
of  holies,  enveloped  in  deep  gloom.  The  hiero- 
glyphic inscriptions  name  this  place  the  “ Hall 


Temple  of  the  Goddess  of  Love  169 

of  INIystery  ” and  formerly  the  high  priest  alone, 
and  he  only  once  in  each  year,  had  the  right  to 
enter  it  for  the  performance  of  some  now  un- 
known rites. 

The  “ Hall  of  Mystery  ” is  empty  to-day, 
despoiled  long  since  of  the  emblems  of  gold  and 
precious  stones  that  once  filled  it.  The  meagre 
little  flames  of  the  candles  we  have  lit  scarcely 
pierce  the  darkness  which  thickens  over  our 
heads  towards  the  granite  ceilings;  at  the  most 
they  only  allow  us  to  distinguish  on  the  walls  of 
the  vast  rectangular  cavern  the  serried  ranks  of 
figures  who  exchange  among  themselves  their  dis- 
concerting mute  conversations. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  ancient  and  at  the 
beginning  of  the  Christian  era,  Egypt,  as  we 
know,  still  exercised  such  a fascination  over  the 
world,  by  its  ancestral  prestige,  by  the  memory 
of  its  dominating  past,  and  the  sovereign  per- 
manence of  its  ruins,  that  it  imposed  its  gods 
upon  its  conquerors,  its  handwriting,  its  archi- 
tecture, nay,  even  its  religious  rites  and  its 
mummies.  The  Ptolemies  built  temples  here, 
which  reproduce  those  of  Thebes  and  Abydos. 
Even  the  Romans,  although  they  had  already 
discovered  the  vault,  followed  here  the  primitive 
models,  and  continued  those  granite  ceilings, 
made  of  monstrous  slabs,  placed  flat,  like  our 
beams.  And  so  this  temple  of  Hathor,  built 


170  Egypt 

though  it  was  in  the  time  of  Cleopatra  and 
Augustus,  on  a site  venerable  in  the  oldest 
antiquity,  recalls  at  first  sight  some  conception 
of  the  Ramses. 

If,  however,  you  examine  it  more  closely,  there 
appears,  particularly  in  the  thousands  of  figures 
in  bas-relief,  a considerable  divergence.  The 
poses  are  the  same  indeed,  and  so  too  are  the 
traditional  gestures.  But  the  exquisite  grace  of 
line  is  gone,  as  well  as  the  hieratic  calm  of  the 
expressions  and  the  smiles.  In  the  Egyptian  art 
of  the  best  periods  the  slender  figures  are  as 
pure  as  the  flowers  they  hold  in  their  hands; 
their  muscles  may  be  indicated  in  a precise  and 
skilful  manner,  but  they  remain,  for  all  that, 
immaterial.  The  god  Amen  himself,  the  pro- 
creator, drawn  often  with  an  absolute  crudity, 
would  seem  chaste  compared  with  the  hosts  of 
this  temple.  For  here,  on  the  contrary,  the 
figures  might  be  those  of  living  people,  palpitat- 
ing and  voluptuous,  who  had  posed  themselves 
for  sport  in  these  consecrated  attitudes.  The 
throat  of  the  beautiful  goddess,  her  hips,  her  un- 
veiled nakedness,  are  portrayed  with  a searching 
and  lingering  realism;  the  flesh  seems  almost  to 
quiver.  She  and  her  spouse,  the  beautiful  Horus, 
son  of  Isis,  contemplate  each  other  there,  naked, 
one  before  the  other,  and  their  laughing  eyes  are 
intoxicated  with  love. 


Temple  of  the  Goddess  of  Love  17 1 

Around  the  holy  of  holies  is  a number  of  halls, 
in  deep  shadow  and  massive  as  so  many  for- 
tresses. They  were  used  formerly  for  mysterious 
and  complicated  rites,  and  in  them,  as  every- 
where else,  there  is  no  corner  of  the  wall  but  is 
overloaded  with  figures  and  hieroglyphs.  Bats 
are  asleep  in  the  blue  ceilings,  where  the  winged 
discs,  painted  in  fresco,  look  like  flights  of  birds ; 
and  the  hornets  of  the  neighbouring  fields  have 
built  their  nests  there  in  hundreds,  so  that  they 
hang  like  stalactites. 

Several  staircases  lead  to  the  vast  terraces 
formed  by  the  great  roofs  of  the  temple — stair- 
cases narrow,  stifling  and  dimly  lighted  by  loop- 
holes that  reveal  the  heart-breaking  thickness  of 
the  walls.  And  here  again  are  the  inevitable 
rows  of  figures,  carved  on  all  the  walls,  in  the 
same  familiar  attitudes;  they  mount  with  us  as 
we  ascend,  making  all  the  time  the  self-same 
signs  one  to  another. 

As  we  emerge  on  to  the  roofs,  bathed  now  in 
Egyptian  sunlight  and  swept  by  a cold  and  bitter 
wind,  we  are  greeted  by  a noise  as  of  an  aviary. 
It  is  the  kingdom  of  the  sparrows,  mIio  have 
built  their  nests  in  thousands  in  this  temple  of 
the  complaisant  goddess.  They  twitter  now  all 
together  and  with  all  their  might  out  of  very  joy 
of  living.  It  is  an  esplanade,  this  roof — a solitude 
paved  with  gigantic  flagstones.  From  it  we  see, 


172  Egypt 

beyond  the  heaps  of  ruins,  those  happy  plains, 
which  are  spread  out  with  such  a perfectly  seren- 
ity on  the  very  ground  where  once  stood  the 
town  of  Denderah,  beloved  of  Hathor  and  one 
of  the  most  famous  of  U pper  E gypt.  Exquisitely 
green  are  these  plains  with  the  new  growth  of 
wheat  and  lucerne  and  bean;  and  the  herds 
that  are  grouped  here  and  there  on  the  fresh 
verdure  of  the  level  pastures,  swaying  now  and 
undulating  in  the  wind,  look  like  so  many  dark 
patches.  And  the  two  chains  of  mountains  of 
rose-coloured  stone,  that  run  parallel — on  the 
east  that  of  the  desert  of  Arabia,  on  the  west 
that  of  the  Libyan  desert — enclose,  in  the  dis- 
tance, this  valley  of  the  Nile,  this  land  of  plenty, 
which,  alike  in  antiquity  as  in  our  days,  has  ex- 
cited the  greed  of  predatory  races.  The  temple 
has  also  some  underground  dependencies  or 
crypts  into  which  you  descend  by  staircases  as  of 
dungeons;  sometimes  even  you  have  to  crawl 
through  holes  to  reach  them.  Long  superposed 
galleries  which  might  serve  as  hiding  places  for 
treasure;  long  corridors  recalling  those  which,  in 
bad  dreams,  threaten  to  close  in  and  bury  you. 
And  the  innumerable  figures,  of  course,  are  here 
too,  gesticulating  on  the  walls;  and  endless  rep- 
resentations of  the  lovely  goddess,  whose  swell- 
ing bosom,  which  has  preserved  almost  in- 
tact the  flesh  colour  applied  in  the  times  of 


Temple  of  the  Goddess  of  Love  173 

the  Ptolemies,  we  have  perforce  to  graze  as  we 
pass. 

• •••••  • 

In  one  of  the  vestibules  that  we  have  to  tra- 
verse on  our  way  out  of  the  sanctuary,  amongst 
the  numerous  bas-reliefs  representing  various 
sovereigns  paying  homage  to  the  beautiful 
Hathor,  is  one  of  a young  man,  crowned  with  a 
royal  tiara  shaped  like  the  head  of  a urgeus.  He 
is  shown  seated  in  the  traditional  Pharaonic  pose 
and  is  none  other  than  the  Emperor  Nero! 

The  hieroglyphs  of  the  cartouche  are  there 
to  affirm  his  identity,  albeit  the  sculptor,  not 
knowing  his  actual  physiognomy,  has  given  him 
the  traditional  features,  regular  as  those  of  the 
god  Homs.  During  the  centuries  of  the  Roman 
domination  the  Western  emperors  used  to  send 
from  home  instructions  that  their  likeness  should 
be  placed  on  the  walls  of  the  temples,  and 
that  offerings  should  be  made  in  their  name  to 
the  Egyptian  divinities — and  this  notwithstand- 
ing that  in  their  eyes  Egypt  must  have  seemed 
so  far  away,  a colony  almost  at  the  end  of  the 
earth.  (And  it  was  such  a goddess  as  this,  of 
secondary  rank  in  the  times  of  the  Pharaohs,  that 
was  singled  out  as  the  favourite  of  the  Romans 
of  the  decadence.) 

The  Emperor  Nero!  As  a matter  of  fact  at 
the  very  time  these  bas-reliefs — almost  the  last 


174-  Egypt 

— and  these  expiring  hieroglyphics  were  being 
inscribed,  the  confused  primitive  theogonies  had 
almost  reached  their  end  and  the  days  of  the 
Goddess  of  Joy  were  numbered.  There  had 
been  conceived  in  Judaea  symbols  more  lofty  and 
more  pure,  which  were  to  rule  a great  part  of  the 
world  for  two  thousand  years — afterwards,  alas, 
to  decline  in  their  turn;  and  men  were  about 
to  throw  themselves  passionately  into  renuncia- 
tion, asceticism  and  fraternal  pity. 

How  strange  it  is  to  say  it!  Even  while  the 
sculptor  was  carving  this  archaic  bas-relief,  and 
was  using,  for  the  engraving  of  its  name,  char- 
acters that  dated  back  to  the  night  of  the  ages, 
there  were  already  Christians  assembled  in  the 
catacombs  at  Rome  and  dying  in  ecstasy  in  the 
arena ! 


MODERN  LUXOR 


CHAPTER  XIII 


MODERN  LUXOR 

The  waters  of  the  Nile  being  already  low,  my 
dahabiya — delayed  by  strandings — had  not  been 
able  to  reach  Luxor,  and  we  had  moored  our- 
selves, as  the  darkness  began  to  fall,  at  a casual 
spot  on  the  bank. 

“We  are  quite  near,”  the  pilot  bad  told  me 
before  departing  to  make  his  evening  prayer; 
“ in  an  hour,  to-morrow,  we  shall  be  there.” 

And  the  gentle  night  descended  upon  us  in 
this  spot  which  did  not  seem  to  differ  at  all  from 
so  many  others  where,  for  a month  past  now, 
we  had  moored  our  boat  at  hazard  to  await  the 
daybreak.  On  the  banks  were  dark  confused 
masses  of  foliage,  above  which  here  and  there  a 
high  date-palm  outlined  its  black  plumes.  The 
air  was  filled  with  the  multitudinous  chirpings  of 
the  crickets  of  Upper  Egypt,  which  make  their 
music  here  almost  throughout  the  year  in  the 
odorous  warmth  of  the  grass.  And,  presently, 
in  the  midst  of  the  silence,  rose  the  cries  of  the 
night  birds,  like  the  mournful  mewings  of  cats. 
And  that  was  all — save  for  the  infinite  calm  of 


177 


178  Egypt 

the  desert  that  is  always  present,  dominating 
everything,  although  scarcely  noticed  and,  as  it 
were,  latent. 

*•••••* 

And  this  morning,  at  the  rising  of  the  sim,  is 
pure  and  splendid  as  all  other  mornings.  A tint 
of  rosy  coral  comes  gradually  to  life  on  the 
summit  of  the  Libyan  mountains,  standing  out 
from  the  gridelin  shadows  which,  in  the  heavens, 
were  the  rearguard  of  the  night. 

But  my  eyes,  grown  accustomed  during  the 
last  few  weeks  to  this  glorious  spectacle  of  the 
dawn,  turn  themselves  as  if  by  force  of  some 
attraction,  towards  a strange  and  quite  unusual 
thing,  which,  less  than  a mile  away  along  the 
river,  on  the  Arabian  bank,  rises  upright  in  the 
midst  of  the  mournful  plains.  At  first  it  looks 
like  a mass  of  towering  rocks,  which  in  this  hour 
of  twilight  magic  have  taken  on  a pale  violet 
colour,  and  seem  almost  transparent.  And  the 
sun,  scarcely  emerged  from  the  desert,  lights 
them  in  a curious  gradation,  and  borders  their 
contours  with  a fringe  of  fresh  rose-colour.  And 
they  are  not  rocks,  in  fact,  for  as  we  look  more 
closely,  they  show  us  lines  symmetrical  and 
straight.  Not  rocks,  but  architectural  masses, 
tremendous  and  superhuman,  placed  there  in 
attitudes  of  quasi-eternal  stability.  And  out  of 
them  rise  the  points  of  two  obelisks,  sharp  as  the 


Modern  Luxor 


179 

blade  of  a lance.  And  then,  at  once,  I under- 
stand— Thebes ! 

Thebes!  Last  evening  it  was  hidden  in  the 
shadow  and  I did  not  know  it  was  so  near.  But 
Thebes  assuredly  it  is,  for  nothing  else  in  the 
world  could  produce  such  an  apparition.  And 
I salute  with  a kind  of  shudder  of  respect  this 
unique  and  sovereign  ruin,  which  had  haunted 
me  for  many  years,  but  which  until  now  life  had 
not  left  me  time  to  visit. 

And  now  for  Luxor,  which  in  the  epoch  of 
the  Pharaohs  was  a suburb  of  the  royal  town, 
and  is  still  its  port.  It  is  there,  it  seems,  where 
we  must  stop  our  dahabiya  in  order  to  proceed 
to  the  fabulous  palace  which  the  rising  sun  has 
just  disclosed  to  us. 

And  while  my  equipage  of  bronze — intoning 
that  song,  as  old  as  Egypt  and  everlastingly  the 
same,  which  seems  to  help  the  men  in  their 
arduous  work — is  busy  unfastening  the  chain 
which  binds  us  to  the  bank,  I continue  to  watch 
the  distant  apparition.  It  emerges  gradually 
from  the  light  morning  mists  which,  perhaps, 

‘ made  it  seem  even  larger  than  it  is.  The  clear 
light  of  the  ascending  sun  shows  it  now  in 
detail;  and  reveals  it  as  all  battered,  broken  and 
ruinous  in  the  midst  of  a silent  plain,  on  the 
yellow  carpet  of  the  desert.  And  how  this  sun, 
rising  in  its  clear  splendour,  seems  to  crush  it 


i8o 


Egypt 

with  its  youth  and  stupendous  duration.  This 
same  smi  had  attained  to  its  present  round  form, 
had  acquired  the  clear  precision  of  its  disc,  and 
begun  its  daily  promenade  over  the  country  of 
the  sands,  countless  centuries  of  centuries,  be- 
fore it  saw,  as  it  might  be  yesterday,  this  town 
of  Thebes  arise;  an  attempt  at  magnificence 
which  seemed  to  promise  for  the  human  pygmies 
a sufficiently  interesting  future,  but  which,  in 
the  event,  we  have  not  been  able  even  to  equal. 
And  it  proved,  too,  a thing  quite  puny  and 
derisory,  since  here  it  is  laid  low,  after  having 
subsisted  barely  four  negligible  thousands  of 
years. 

An  hour  later  we  arrive  at  Luxor,  and  what 
a surprise  awaits  us  there! 

The  thing  which  dominates  the  whole  town, 
and  may  be  seen  five  or  six  miles  away,  is  the 
Winter  Palace,  a hasty  modern  production  which 
has  grown  on  the  border  of  the  Nile  during  the 
past  year:  a colossal  hotel,  obviously  sham,  made 
of  plaster  and  mud,  on  a framework  of  iron. 
Twice  or  three  times  as  high  as  the  admirable 
Pharaonic  temple,  its  impudent  fa9ade  rises  there, 
painted  a dirty  yellow.  One  such  thing,  it  will 
readily  be  understood,  is  sufficient  to  disfigure 
pitiably  the  whole  of  the  surroundings.  The  old 
Arab  town,  with  its  little  white  houses,  its  mina- 


Modern  Luxor 


i8i 


rets  and  its  palm-trees,  might  as  well  not  exist. 
The  famous  temple  and  the  forest  of  heavy 
Osiridean  columns  admire  themselves  in  vain 
in  the  waters  of  the  river.  It  is  the  end  of 
Luxor. 

And  what  a crowd  of  people  is  here!  While, 
on  the  contrary,  the  opposite  bank  seems  so 
absolutely  desertlike,  with  its  stretches  of  golden 
sand  and,  on  the  horizon,  its  mountains  of  the 
colour  of  glowing  embers,  which,  as  we  know,  are 
full  of  mummies. 

Poor  Luxor!  Along  the  hanks  is  a row  of 
tourist  boats,  a sort  of  two  or  three  storeyed 
barracks,  which  nowadays  infest  the  Nile  from 
Cairo  to  the  Cataracts.  Their  whistlings  and  the 
vibration  of  their  dynamos  make  an  intolerable 
noise.  How  shall  I find  a quiet  place  for  my 
dahabiya,  where  the  functionaries  of  Messrs  Cook 
will  not  come  to  disturb  me? 

We  can  now  see  nothing  of  the  palaces  of 
Thebes,  whither  I am  to  repair  in  the  evening. 
We  are  farther  from  them  than  we  were  last 
night.  The  apparition  during  our  morning’s 
journey  had  slowly  receded  in  the  plains  flooded 
by  sunlight.  And  then  the  Winter  Palace  and 
the  new  boats  shut  out  the  view. 

But  this  modern  quay  of  Luxor,  where  I dis- 
embark at  ten  o’clock  in  the  morning  in  clear  and 
radiant  sunshine,  is  not  without  its  amusing  side. 


i82 


Egypt 

In  a line  with  the  Winter  Palace  a number 
of  stalls  follow  one  another.  All  those  things  with 
which  our  tourists  are  wont  to  array  themselves 
are  on  sale  there:  fans,  fly  flaps,  helmets  and 
blue  spectacles.  And,  in  thousands,  photographs 
of  the  ruins.  And  there  too  are  the  toys,  the 
souvenirs  of  the  Soudan : old  negro  knives, 
panther-skins  and  gazelle  horns.  Numbers  of 
Indians  even  are  come  to  this  improvised  fair, 
bringing  their  stuffs  from  Rajputana  and  Cash- 
mere.  And,  above  all,  there  are  dealers  in 
mummies,  offering  for  sale  mysteriously  shaped 
coffins,  mummy-cloths,  dead  hands,  gods,  scarahsei 
— and  the  thousand  and  one  things  that  this  old 
soil  has  yielded  for  centuries  like  an  inexhaustible 
mine. 

Along  the  stalls,  keeping  in  the  shade  of  the 
houses  and  the  scattered  palms,  pass  representa- 
tives of  the  plutocracy  of  the  world.  Dressed 
by  the  same  costumiers,  bedecked  in  the  same 
plumes,  and  with  faces  reddened  by  the  same  sun, 
the  millionaire  daughters  of  Chicago  merchants 
elbow  their  sisters  of  the  old  nobility.  Pressing 
amongst  them  impudent  young  Bedouins  pester 
the  fair  travellers  to  mount  their  saddled  donkeys. 
And  as  if  they  were  charged  to  add  to  this  babel 
a note  of  beauty,  the  battalions  of  Mr  Cook,  of 
both  sexes,  and  always  in  a hurry,  pass  by  with 
long  strides. 


Modern  Luxor  183 

Beyond  the  shops,  following  the  line  of  the 
quay,  there  are  other  hotels.  Less  aggressive, 
all  of  them,  than  the  Winter  Palace,  they  have 
had  the  discretion  not  to  raise  themselves  too  high, 
and  to  cover  their  fronts  with  white  chalk  in 
the  Arab  fashion,  even  to  conceal  themselves  in 
clusters  of  palm-trees. 

And  finally  there  is  the  colossal  temple  of 
Luxor,  looking  as  out  of  place  now  as  the 
poor  obelisk  which  Egypt  gave  us  as  a present, 
and  which  stands  to-day  in  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde. 

Bordering  the  Nile,  it  is  a colossal  grove  of 
stone,  about  three  hundred  yards  in  length.  In 
epochs  of  a magnificence  that  is  now  scarcely 
conceivable  this  forest  of  columns  grew  high 
and  thick,  rising  impetuously  at  the  bidding  of 
Amenophis  and  the  great  Ramses.  And  how 
beautiful  it  must  have  been  even  yesterday, 
dominating  in  its  superb  disarray  this  surround- 
ing country,  vowed  for  centuries  to  neglect  and 
silence ! 

But  to-day,  with  all  these  things  that  men 
have  built  aroimd  it,  you  might  say  that  it  no 
longer  exists. 

We  reach  an  iron-barred  gate  and,  to  enter, 
have  to  show  our  permit  to  the  guards.  Once 
inside  the  immense  sanctuary,  perhaps  we  shall 
find  solitude  again.  But,  alas,  imder  the  profaned 


1 8+  Egypt 

columns  a crowd  of  people  passes,  with  Baedekers 
in  their  hands,  the  same  people  that  one  sees 
here  everywhere,  the  same  world  as  frequents 
Nice  and  the  Riviera.  And,  to  crown  the  mock- 
ery, the  noise  of  the  dynamos  pursues  us  even 
here,  for  the  boats  of  Messrs  Cook  are  moored  to 
the  bank  close  by. 

Hmidreds  of  columns,  columns  which  are 
anterior  by  many  centuries  to  those  of  Greece, 
and  represent,  in  their  naive  enormity,  the  first 
conceptions  of  the  human  brain.  Some  are  fluted 
and  give  the  impression  of  sheaves  of  monstrous 
reeds;  others,  quite  plain  and  simple,  imitate  the 
stem  of  the  papyrus,  and  bear  by  way  of  capital 
its  strange  flower.  The  toinrists,  like  the  flies, 
enter  at  certain  times  of  the  day,  which  it  suffices 
to  know.  Soon  the  little  bells  of  the  hotels  will 
call  them  away  and  the  hour  of  midday  will  find 
me  here  alone.  But  what  in  heaven’s  name  will 
deliver  me  from  the  noise  of  the  dynamos?  But 
look!  beyond  there,  at  the  bottom  of  the  sanctu- 
aries, in  the  part  which  should  be  the  holy  of 
holies,  that  great  fresco,  now  half  effaced,  but 
still  clearly  visible  on  the  wall — ^how  unexpected 
and  arresting  it  is ! An  image  of  Christ  1 Christ 
crowned  with  the  Byzantine  aureole.  It  has  been 
painted  on  a coarse  plaster,  w^hich  seems  to  have 
been  added  by  an  unskilful  hand,  and  is  wearing 
off  and  exposing  the  hieroglyphs  beneath.  . . . 


Modem  Luxor  185 

This  temple,  in  fact,  almost  indestructible  by 
reason  of  its  massiveness,  has  passed  through  the 
hands  of  diverse  masters.  Its  antiquity  was  al- 
ready legendary  in  the  time  of  Alexander  the 
Great,  on  whose  behalf  a chapel  was  added  to 
it;  and  later  on,  in  the  first  ages  of  Christianity, 
a corner  of  the  ruins  was  turned  into  a cathedral. 
The  tourists  begin  to  depart,  for  the  lunch  bell 
calls  them  to  the  neighbouring  tables  d’hote',  and 
while  I wait  till  they  shall  be  gone,  I occupy 
myself  in  following  the  bas-reliefs  which  are  dis- 
played for  a length  of  more  than  a hundred  yards 
along  the  base  of  the  walls.  It  is  one  long  row 
of  people  moving  in  their  thousands  all  in  the 
same  direction — the  ritual  procession  of  the  God 
Amen.  With  the  care  which  characterised  the 
Egyptians  to  draw  everything  from  life  so  as  to 
render  it  eternal,  there  are  represented  here  the 
smallest  details  of  a day  of  festival  three  or  four 
thousand  years  ago.  And  how  like  it  is  to  a holi- 
day of  the  people  of  to-day ! Along  the  route  of 
the  procession  are  ranged  jugglers  and  sellers  of 
drinks  and  fruits,  and  negro  acrobats  who  walk 
on  their  hands  and  twist  themselves  into  all  kinds 
of  contortions.  But  the  procession  itself  was  evi- 
dently of  a magnificence  such  as  we  no  longer 
know.  The  number  of  musicians  and  priests,  of 
corporations,  of  emblems  and  banners,  is  quite 
bewildering.  The  God  Amen  himself  came  by 


i86 


Egypt 

water,  on  the  river,  in  his  golden  barge  with 
its  raised  prow,  followed  by  the  barques  of  all 
the  other  gods  and  goddesses  of  his  heaven.  The 
reddish  stone,  carved  with  minute  care,  tells  me 
all  this,  as  it  has  already  told  it  to  so  many  dead 
generations,  so  that  I seem  almost  to  see  it. 

And  now  everybody  has  gone:  the  colonnades 
are  empty  and  the  noise  of  the  dynamos  has 
ceased.  Midday  approaches  with  its  torpor.  The 
whole  temple  seems  to  be  ablaze  with  rays,  and 
I watch  the  clear-cut  shadows  cast  by  this  forest 
of  stone  gradually  shortening  on  the  ground. 
The  sun,  which  just  now  shone,  all  smiles  and 
gaiety,  upon  the  quay  of  the  new  town  amid  the 
uproar  of  the  stall-keepers,  the  donkey  drivers 
and  the  cosmopolitan  passengers,  casts  here  a 
sullen,  impassive  and  consuming  fire.  And  mean- 
while the  shadows  shorten — and  just  as  they  do 
every  day,  beneath  this  sky  which  is  never  over- 
cast, just  as  they  have  done  for  five  and  thirty 
centm’ies,  these  columns,  these  friezes,  and  this 
temple  itself,  like  a mysterious  and  solemn 
sundial,  record  patiently  on  the  ground  the 
slow  passing  of  the  hom’s.  Verily  for  us,  the 
ephemerse  of  thought,  this  unbroken  continuity 
of  the  sun  of  Egypt  has  more  of  melancholy 
even  than  the  changing,  overcast  skies  of  our 
climate. 

And  now,  at  last,  the  temple  is  restored  to 


Modern  Luxor  187 

solitude  and  all  noise  in  the  neighbourhood  has 
ceased. 

An  avenue  bordered  by  very  high  columns,  of 
which  the  capitals  are  in  the  form  of  the  full- 
blown flowers  of  the  papyrus,  leads  me  to  a place 
shut  in  and  almost  terrible,  where  is  massed  an 
assembly  of  colossi.  Two,  who,  if  they  were 
standing,  would  be  quite  ten  yards  in  height,  are 
seated  on  thrones  on  either  side  of  the  entrance. 
The  others,  ranged  on  the  three  sides  of  the 
courtyard,  stand  upright  behind  colonnades,  but 
look  as  if  they  were  about  to  issue  thence  and  to 
stride  rapidly  towards  me.  Some,  broken  and 
battered,  have  lost  their  faces  and  preserve  only 
their  intimidating  attitude.  Those  that  remain 
intact — white  faces  beneath  their  Sphinx’s  head- 
gear — open  their  eyes  wide  and  smile. 

This  was  formerly  the  principal  entrance,  and 
the  office  of  these  colossi  was  to  welcome  the 
multitudes.  But  now  the  gates  of  honour,  flanked 
by  obelisks  of  red  granite,  are  obstructed  by  a 
litter  of  enormous  ruins.  And  the  courtyard  has 
become  a place  voluntarily  closed,  where  noth- 
ing of  the  outside  world  is  any  longer  to  be 
seen.  In  moments  of  silence,  one  can  abstract 
oneself  from  all  the  neighbouring  modern  things, 
and  forget  the  hour,  the  day,  the  century  even, 
in  the  midst  of  these  gigantic  figures,  whose 
smile  disdains  the  flight  of  ages.  The  granites 


1 88  Egypt 

within  which  we  are  immured — and  in  such 
terrible  company — shut  out  everything  save  the 
point  of  an  old  neighbouring  minaret  which  shows 
now  against  the  blue  of  the  sky:  a humble  graft 
of  Islam  which  grew  here  amongst  the  ruins 
some  centuries  ago,  when  the  ruins  themselves 
had  already  subsisted  for  three  thousand  years — 
a httle  mosque  built  on  a mass  of  debris,  which 
it  now  protects  with  its  inviolability.  How  many 
treasures  and  relics  and  documents  are  hidden 
and  guarded  by  this  mosque  of  the  peristyle! 
For  none  would  dare  to  dig  in  the  ground  within 
its  sacred  walls. 

Gradually  the  silence  of  the  temple  becomes 
profound.  And  if  the  shortened  shadows  betray 
the  hour  of  noon,  there  is  nothing  to  tell  to  what 
millennium  that  hour  belongs.  The  silences  and 
middays  like  to  this,  which  have  passed  before 
the  eyes  of  these  giants  ambushed  in  their  colon- 
nades— who  could  count  them? 

High  above  us,  lost  in  the  incandescent  blue, 
soar  the  birds  of  prey — and  they  were  there  in  the 
times  of  the  Pharaohs,  displaying  in  the  air  iden- 
tical plumages,  uttering  the  same  cries.  The 
beasts  and  plants,  in  the  course  of  time,  have 
varied  less  than  men,  and  remain  michanged  in 
the  smallest  details. 

Each  of  the  colossi  around  me — standing  there 
proudly  with  one  leg  advanced  as  if  for  a march. 


Modern  Luxor  189 

heavy  and  sure,  which  nothing  should  withstand 
— grasps  passionately  in  his  clenched  fist,  at  the 
end  of  the  muscular  arm,  a kind  of  buckled  cross, 
which  in  Egypt  was  the  symbol  of  eternal  life. 
And  this  is  what  the  decision  of  their  movement 
symbolises:  confident  all  of  them  in  this  poor 
bauble  which  they  hold  in  their  hand,  they  cross 
with  a triumphant  step  the  threshold  of  death. 
. . . “ Eternal  Life  ” — the  thought  of  immortal- 
ity— how  the  human  soul  has  been  obsessed  by  it, 
particularly  in  the  periods  marked  by  its  greatest 
strivings ! The  tame  submission  to  the  belief  that 
the  rottenness  of  the  grave  is  the  end  of  all  is 
characteristic  of  ages  of  decadence  and  mediocrity. 

The  three  similar  giants,  little  damaged  in 
the  course  of  their  long  existence,  who  align 
the  eastern  side  of  this  courtyard  strewn  with 
blocks,  represent,  as  indeed  do  all  the  others,  that 
same  Ramses  II.,  whose  effigy  was  multiplied 
so  extravagantly  at  Thebes  and  Memphis.  But 
these  three  have  preserved  a powerful  and  im- 
petuous life.  They  might  have  been  caiwed  and 
polished  yesterday.  Between  the  monstrous 
reddish  pillars,  they  look  like  white  apparitions 
issuing  from  their  embrasure  of  columns  and 
advancing  together  like  soldiers  at  manceuvres. 
The  sun  at  this  moment  falls  perpendicularly  on 
their  heads  and  strange  headgear,  details  their 
everlasting  smile,  and  then  sheds  itself  on  their 


190  Egypt 

shoulders  and  their  naked  torso,  exaggerating 
their  athletic  muscles.  Each  holding  in  his  hand 
the  symbolical  cross,  the  three  giants  msh  for- 
ward with  a formidable  stride,  heads  raised,  smil- 
ing, in  a radiant  march  into  eternity. 

Oh!  this  midday  sun,  that  now  pours  down 
upon  the  white  faces  of  these  giants,  and  dis- 
places ever  so  slowly  the  shadows  cast  upon  their 
breasts  by  their  chins  and  Osiridean  beards.  To 
think  how  often  in  the  midst  of  this  same  silence, 
this  same  ray  has  fallen  thus,  fallen  from  the 
same  changeless  sky,  to  occupy  itself  in  this  same 
tranquil  play!  Yes,  I think  that  the  fogs  and 
rains  of  our  winters,  upon  these  stupendous  ruins, 
would  be  less  sad  and  less  terrible  than  the  cahn 
of  this  eternal  sunshine. 

• •••••• 

Suddenly  a ridiculous  noise  begins  to  make 
the  air  tremble;  the  dynamos  of  the  Agencies 
have  been  put  in  motion,  and  ladies  in  green 
spectacles  arrive,  a charming  throng,  with  guide- 
books and  cameras.  The  tourists,  in  short,  are 
come  out  of  their  hotels,  at  the  same  hour  as  the 
flies  awake.  And  the  midday  peace  of  Luxor 
has  come  to  an  end. 


A TWENTIETH  - CENTURY 
EVENING  AT  THEBES 


CHAPTER  XIV 


A TWENTIETH-CENTURY  EVENING  AT  THEBES 

An  impalpable  dust  floats  in  a sky  which  scarcely 
ever  knows  a cloud;  a dust  so  impalpable  that, 
even  while  it  powders  the  heavens  with  gold,  it 
leaves  them  their  infinite  transparency.  It  is  a 
dust  of  remote  ages,  of  things  destroyed;  a dust 
that  is  here  continually — of  which  the  gold  at  this 
moment  fades  to  green  at  the  zenith,  but  flames 
and  glistens  in  the  west,  for  it  is  now  that  magni- 
ficent hour  which  marks  the  end  of  the  day’s 
decline,  and  the  still  burning  globe  of  the  sun, 
quite  low  down  in  the  heaven,  begins  to  light  up 
on  all  sides  the  conflagration  of  the  evening. 

This  setting  sun  illumines  with  splendour  a 
silent  chaos  of  granite,  which  is  not  that  of  the 
slipping  of  mountains,  but  that  of  ruins.  And 
of  such  ruins  as,  to  our  eyes  unaccustomed  hered- 
itarily to  proportions  so  gigantic,  seem  super- 
human. In  places,  huge  masses  of  carven  stone 
— pylons — ^still  stand  upright,  rising  like  hills. 
Others  are  crumbling  in  all  directions  in  bewilder- 
ing cataracts  of  stone.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive 
how  these  things,  so  massive  that  they  might  have 

193 


19+  Egypt 

seemed  eternal,  could  come  to  suffer  such  an  utter 
ruin.  Fragments  of  columns,  fragments  of 
obelisks,  broken  by  downfalls  of  which  the  mere 
imagination  is  awful,  heads  and  head-dresses  of 
giant  divinities,  all  lie  higgledy-piggledy  in  a 
disorder  beyond  possible  redress.  Nowhere  surely 
on  our  earth  does  the  sun  in  his  daily  revolution 
cast  his  light  on  such  debris  as  this,  on  such  a 
htter  of  vanished  palaces  and  dead  colossi, 
i It  was  even  here,  seven  or  eight  thousand 
years  ago,  under  this  pure  crystal  sky,  that  the 
first  awakening  of  human  thought  began.  Our 
Europe  then  was  still  sleeping,  wrapped  in  the 
mantle  of  its  damp  forests;  sleeping  that  sleep 
which  still  had  thousands  of  years  to  run.  Here, 
a precocious  humanity,  only  recently  emerged 
from  the  Age  of  Stone,  that  earliest  form  of  all, 
an  infant  humanity,  which  saw  massively  on  its 
issue  from  the  massiveness  of  the  original  matter, 
conceived  and  built  terrible  sanctuaries  for  gods, 
at  first  dreadful  and  vague,  such  as  its  nascent 
reason  allowed  it  to  conceive  them.  Then  the 
first  megalithic  blocks  were  erected;  then  began 
that  mad  heaping  up  and  up,  which  was  to  last 
nearly  fifty  centuries;  and  temples  were  built 
above  temples,  palaces  over  palaces,  each  genera- 
tion striving  to  outdo  its  predecessor  by  a more 
titanic  grandeur. 

Afterwards,  four  thousand  years  ago,  Thebes 


Evening  at  Thebes  195 

was  in  the  height  of  her  glory,  encumbered  with 
gods  and  with  magnificence,  the  focus  of  the 
light  of  the  world  in  the  most  ancient  historic 
periods;  while  our  Occident  was  still  asleep  and 
Greece  and  Assyria  were  scarcely  awakened. 
Only  in  the  extreme  East,  a humanity  of  a differ- 
ent race,  the  yellow  people,  called  to  follow  in 
totally  different  ways,  was  fixing,  so  that  they 
remain  even  to  our  day,  the  oblique  lines  of  its 
angular  roofs  and  the  rictus  of  its  monsters. 

The  men  of  Thebes,  if  they  still  saw  too 
massively  and  too  vastly,  at  least  saw  straight; 
they  saw  calmly,  at  the  same  time  as  they  saw 
for  ever.  Their  conceptions,  which  had  begun  to 
inspire  those  of  Greece,  were  afterwards  in  some 
measure  to  inspire  our  own.  In  religion,  in  art, 
in  beauty  under  all  its  aspects,  they  were  as 
much  our  ancestors  as  were  the  Aryans. 

Later  again,  sixteen  hundred  years  before  the 
birth  of  Christ,  in  one  of  the  apogees  of  the  town 
which,  in  the  course  of  its  interminable  duration, 
experienced  so  many  fluctuations,  some  ostenta- 
tious kings  thought  fit  to  build  on  this  ground, 
already  covered  with  temples,  that  which  still 
remains  the  most  arresting  maiwel  of  the  ruins: 
the  hypostyle  hall,  dedicated  to  the  God  Amen, 
with  its  forest  of  columns,  as  monstrous  as  the 
trunk  of  the  baobab  and  as  liigh  as  towers,  com- 
pared with  which  the  pillars  of  our  cathedrals  are 


1 96  Egypt 

utterly  insignificant.  In  those  days  the  same 
gods  reigned  at  Thebes  as  three  thousand  years 
before,  but  in  the  interval  they  had  been  trans- 
formed little  by  little  in  accordance  with  the  pro- 
gressive development  of  human  thought,  and 
Amen,  the  host  of  this  prodigious  hall,  asserted 
himself  more  and  more  as  the  sovereign  master 
of  life  and  eternity.  Pharaonic  Egypt  was  really 
tending,  m spite  of  some  revolts,  towards  the  no- 
tion of  a divine  unity ; even,  one  might  say,  to  the 
notion  of  a supreme  pity,  for  she  already  had  her 
Apis,  emanating  from  the  All-Powerful,  born  of 
a virgin  mother,  and  come  humbly  to  the  earth  in 
order  to  make  acquaintance  with  suffering. 

After  Seti  I.  and  the  Ramses  had  built,  in 
honour  of  Amen,  this  temple,  which,  beyond  all 
doubt,  is  the  grandest  and  most  durable  in  the 
world,  men  still  continued  for  another  fifteen 
centuries  to  heap  up  in  its  neighbourhood  those 
blocks  of  granite  and  marble  and  sandstone, 
whose  enormity  now  amazes  us.  Even  for  the  in- 
vaders of  Egypt,  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  this 
old  ancestral  town  of  towns  remained  imposing 
and  unique.  They  repaired  its  ruins,  and  built 
here  temple  after  temple,  in  a style  which  hardly 
ever  changed.  Even  in  the  ages  of  decadence 
eveiything  that  raised  itself  from  the  old,  sacred 
soil,  seemed  to  be  impregnated  a little  with  the 
ancient  grandeur. 


Evening  at  Thebes  197 

And  it  was  only  when  the  early  Christians 
ruled  here,  and  after  them  the  Moslem  icono- 
clasts, that  the  destruction  became  final.  To  these 
new  believers,  who,  in  their  simplicity,  imagined 
themselves  to  be  possessed  of  the  ultimate  reli- 
gious formula,  and  to  know  by  His  right  name 
the  Great  Unknowable,  Thebes  became  the  haunt 
of  “ false  gods,”  the  abomination  of  abomina- 
tions, which  it  behoved  them  to  destroy. 

And  so  they  set  to  work,  penetrating  with  an 
ever-present  fear  into  the  profound  depths  of  the 
gloomy  sanctuaries,  mutilating  first  of  all  the 
thousands  of  visages  whose  disconcerting  smile 
frightened  them,  and  then  exhausting  them- 
selves in  the  effort  to  uproot  the  colossi,  which, 
even  with  the  help  of  levers,  they  could  not 
move.  It  was  no  easy  task  indeed,  for  every- 
thing was  as  solid  as  geological  masses,  as  rocks 
or  promontories.  But  for  five  or  six  hundred 
years  the  town  was  given  over  to  the  caprice  of 
desecrators. 

And  then  came  the  centuries  of  silence  and 
oblivion  under  the  shroud  of  the  desert  sands, 
which,  thickening  each  year,  proceeded  to  bury, 
and,  in  the  event,  to  preserve  for  us,  this  peerless 
relic. 

And  now,  at  last,  Thebes  is  being  exhumed 
and  restored  to  a semblance  of  life — now,  after  a 
cycle  of  seven  or  eight  thousand  years,  when  our 


igS  Egypt 

W estern  humanity,  having  left  the  primitive  gods 
that  we  see  here,  to  embrace  the  Christian  con- 
ception, which,  even  yesterday,  made  it  Hve,  is 
in  way  of  denying  everything,  and  struggles 
before  the  enigma  of  death  in  an  obscurity  more 
dismal  and  more  fearful  than  in  the  commence- 
ment of  the  ages.  (More  dismal  and  more 
fearful  still  in  this,  that  the  plea  of  youth  is 
gone.)  From  all  parts  of  Europe  curious  and 
unquiet  spirits,  as  well  as  mere  idlers,  turn  their 
steps  towards  Thebes,  the  ancient  mother.  Men 
clear  the  rubbish  from  its  remains,  devise  ways 
of  retarding  the  enormous  fallings  of  its  ruins, 
and  dig  in  its  old  soil,  stored  with  hidden 
treasure. 

And  this  evening  on  one  of  the  portals  to 
which  I have  just  mounted — that  which  opens 
at  the  north-west  and  terminates  the  colossal 
artery  of  temples  and  palaces,  many  very  diverse 
groups  have  already  taken  their  places,  after  the 
pilgrimage  of  the  day  amongst  the  ruins.  And 
others  are  hastening  towards  the  staircase  by 
which  we  have  just  climbed,  so  as  not  to  miss 
the  grand  spectacle  of  the  sun  setting,  always 
with  the  same  serenity,  the  same  imchanging 
magnificence,  behind  the  town  which  once  was 
consecrated  to  it. 

French,  German,  English:  I see  them  below, 
a lot  of  pygmy  figures,  issuing  from  the  hypo- 


Evening  at  Thebes  199 

style  hall,  and  making  their  way  towards  us. 
Mean  and  pitiful  they  look  in  their  twentieth- 
century  travellers’  costumes,  hurrying  along  that 
avenue  where  once  defiled  so  many  processions  of 
gods  and  goddesses.  And  yet  this,  perhaps,  is 
the  only  occasion  on  which  one  of  these  bands  of 
tourists  does  not  seem  to  me  altogether  ridicu- 
lous. Amongst  these  groups  of  unknown  people, 
there  is  none  who  is  not  collected  and  thoughtful, 
or  who  does  not  at  least  pretend  to  be  so;  and 
there  is  some  saving  quality  of  grace,  even  some 
grandeur  of  humility,  in  the  sentiment  which  has 
brought  them  to  this  town  of  Amen,  and  in  the 
homage  of  their  silence. 

We  are  so  high  on  this  portal  that  we  might 
fancy  ourselves  upon  a tower,  and  the  defaced 
stones  of  which  it  is  built  are  immeasurably  large. 
Instinctively  each  one  sits  with  his  face  to  the 
glowing  sun,  and  consequently  to  the  outspread 
distances  of  the  fields  and  the  desert. 

Before  us,  under  our  feet,  an  avenue  stretches 
away,  prolonging  towards  the  fields  the  pomp  of 
the  dead  city — an  avenue  bordered  by  monstrous 
rams,  larger  than  buffaloes,  all  crouched  on  their 
pedestals  in  two  parallel  rows  in  the  traditional 
hieratic  pose.  The  avenue  terminates  beyond  at 
a kind  of  wharf  or  landing-stage  which  formerly 
gave  on  to  the  Nile.  It  was  there  that  the  God 
Amen,  carried  and  followed  by  long  trains  of 


200 


Egypt 

priests,  came  every  year  to  take  his  golden  barge 
for  a solemn  procession.  But  it  leads  to-day  only 
to  the  cornfields,  for,  in  the  course  of  successive 
centuries,  the  river  has  receded  little  by  little  and 
now  winds  its  course  a thousand  yards  away  in 
the  direction  of  Libya. 

We  can  see,  beyond,  the  old  sacred  Nile  be- 
tween the  clusters  of  palm-trees  on  its  banks; 
meandering  there  like  a rosy  pathway,  which 
remains,  nevertheless,  in  this  hour  of  universal 
incandescence,  astonishingly  pale,  and  gleams  oc- 
casionally with  a bluish  light.  And  on  the  farther 
bank,  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  western 
horizon,  stretches  the  chain  of  the  Libyan  moun- 
tains behind  which  the  sun  is  about  to  plunge:  a 
chain  of  red  sandstone,  parched  since  the  begin- 
ning of  the  world — without  a rival  in  the  pres- 
ervation to  perpetuity  of  dead  bodies — which  the 
Thebans  perforated  to  its  extreme  depths  to  fiU 
it  with  sarcophagi. 

We  watch  the  sun  descend.  But  we  turn  also 
to  see,  behind  us,  the  ruins  in  this  the  traditional 
moment  of  their  apotheosis.  Thebes,  the  immense 
town-mummy,  seems  all  at  once  to  be  ablaze — as 
if  its  old  stones  were  able  still  to  burn;  all  its 
blocks,  fallen  or  upright,  appear  to  have  been 
suddenly  made  ruddy  by  the  glow  of  fire. 

On  this  side,  too,  the  view  embraces  great 
peaceful  distances.  Past  the  last  pylons,  and 


Evening  at  Thebes  201 

beyond  the  crumbling  ramparts  the  country, 
down  there  behind  the  town,  presents  the  same 
appearance  as  that  we  were  facing  a moment 
before.  The  same  cornfields,  the  same  woods  of 
date-trees,  that  make  a girdle  of  green  palms 
around  the  ruins.  And,  right  in  the  background, 
a chain  of  mountains  is  lit  up  and  glows  with  a 
vivid  coral  colour.  It  is  the  chain  of  the  Arabian 
desert,  lying  parallel  to  that  of  Libya,  along  the 
whole  length  of  the  Nile  Valley — which  is  thus 
guarded  on  right  and  left  by  stones  and  sand 
stretched  out  in  profound  solitudes. 

In  all  the  surrounding  country  which  we 
command  from  this  spot  there  is  no  indication 
of  the  present  day ; only  here  and  there,  amongst 
the  palm-trees,  the  villages  of  the  field  labourers, 
whose  houses  of  dried  earth  can  scarcely  have 
changed  since  the  days  of  the  Pharaohs.  Our 
contemporaiy  desecrators  have  up  till  now  re- 
spected the  infinite  desuetude  of  the  place,  and, 
for  the  tourists  who  begin  to  haunt  it,  no  one  yet 
has  dared  to  build  a hotel. 

Slowly  the  sun  descends;  and  behind  us  the 
granites  of  the  town-mummy  seem  to  bum  more 
and  more.  It  is  true  that  a slight  shadow  of  a 
warmer  tint,  an  amaranth  violet,  begins  to  en- 
croach upon  the  lower  parts,  spreading  along 
the  avenues  and  over  the  open  spaces.  But 
everything  that  rises  into  the  sky — the  friezes 


202 


Egypt 

of  the  temples,  the  capitals  of  the  columns, 
the  sharp  points  of  the  obelisks — are  still  red  as 
glowing  embers.  These  all  become  imbued  with 
light  and  continue  to  glow  and  shed  a rosy 
illumination  until  the  end  of  the  twilight. 

It  is  a glorious  hour,  even  for  the  old  dust  of 
Egypt,  which  fills  the  air  eternally,  without 
detracting  at  all  from  its  wonderful  clearness. 
It  savours  of  spices,  of  the  Bedouin,  of  the 
bitumen  of  the  sarcophagus.  And  here  now  it 
is  playing  the  role  of  those  powders  of  different 
shades  of  gold  which  the  Japanese  use  for  the 
backgrounds  of  their  lacquered  landscapes.  It 
reveals  itself  everywhere,  close  to  and  on  the 
liorizon,  modifying  at  its  pleasure  the  colour  of 
things,  and  giving  them  a kind  of  metallic  lustre. 
The  phantasy  of  its  changes  is  unimaginable. 
Even  in  the  distances  of  the  countryside,  it  is  busy 
indicating  by  little  trailing  clouds  of  gold  the 
smallest  pathways  traversed  by  the  herds. 

And  now  the  disc  of  the  God  of  Thebes  has 
disappeared  behind  the  Libyan  mountains,  after 
changing  its  light  from  red  to  yellow  and  from 
yellow  to  green. 

And  thereupon  the  tourists,  judging  that  the 
display  is  over  for  the  night,  commence  to  descend 
and  make  ready  for  departure.  Some  in  car- 
riages, others  on  donkeys,  they  go  to  recniit  them- 
selves with  the  electricity  and  elegance  of  Luxor, 


Evening  at  Thebes  203 

the  neighbouring  town  (wines  and  spirits  are 
paid  for  as  extras,  and  we  dress  for  dinner) . And 
the  dust  condescends  to  mark  their  exodus  also  by 
a last  cloud  of  gold  beneath  the  palm-trees  of  the 
road. 

An  immediate  solemnity  succeeds  to  their  de- 
parture. Above  the  mud  houses  of  the  fellah 
villages  rise  slender  columns  of  smoke,  which  are 
of  a periwinkle-blue  in  the  midst  of  the  still  yellow 
atmosphere.  They  tell  of  the  humble  life  of  these 
little  homesteads,  subsisting  here,  where  in  the 
backward  of  the  ages  were  so  many  palaces  and 
splendours. 

And  the  first  hayings  of  the  watchdogs  an- 
nounce already  the  vague  uneasiness  of  the  even- 
ings around  the  ruins.  There  is  no  one  now  within 
the  mummy-town,  which  seems  all  at  once  to  have 
grown  larger  in  the  silence.  Very  quickly  the 
violet  shadow  covers  it,  all  save  the  extreme  points 
of  its  obehsks,  which  keep  still  a little  of  their 
rose-colour.  The  feeling  comes  over  you  that  a 
sovereign  mystery  has  taken  possession  of  the 
town,  as  if  some  vague  phantom  things  had  just 
passed  into  it. 


J 


j 


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THEBES  BY  NIGHT 


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CHAPTER  XV 


THEBES  BY  NIGHT 

The  feeling,  almost,  that  you  have  grown  sud- 
denly smaller  by  entering  there,  that  you  are 
dwarfed  to  less  than  human  size — ^to  such  an 
extent  do  the  proportions  of  these  ruins  seem  to 
crush  you — and  the  illusion,  also,  that  the  light, 
instead  of  being  extinguished  with  the  evening, 
has  only  changed  its  colour,  and  become  blue: 
that  is  what  one  experiences  on  a clear  Egj’^ptian 
night,  in  walking  between  the  colonnades  of  the 
great  temple  at  Thebes. 

The  place  is,  moreover,  so  singular  and  so  ter- 
rible that  its  mere  name  would  at  once  cast  a spell 
upon  the  spirit,  even  if  one  were  ignorant  of  the 
place  itself.  The  hypostyle  of  the  temple  of  the 
God  Amen — ^that  could  be  no  other  thing  but 
one.  For  this  hall  is  unique  in  the  world,  in  the 
same  way  as  the  Grotto  of  Fingal  and  the  Hima- 
la5’^as  are  unique. 


To  wander  absolutely  alone  at  night  in  Thebes 
requires  during  the  winter  a certain  amount  of 
stratagem  and  a knowledge  of  the  routine  of  the 
■207 


2o8  Egypt 

tourists.  It  is  necessary,  first  of  all,  to  choose  a 
night  on  which  the  moon  rises  late  and  then, 
having  entered  before  the  close  of  the  day,  to 
escape  the  notice  of  the  Bedouin  guards  who  shut 
the  gates  at  nightfall.  Thus  have  I manoeuvred 
to-day,  and  undisturbed,  watching  from  a hiding 
place  on  high,  I have  waited  with  the  patience  of 
a stone  Osiris,  till  the  grand  transformation  scene 
of  the  setting  of  the  sun  was  played  out  once 
more  upon  the  ruins.  Thebes,  which,  during  the 
day,  is  almost  animated  by  reason  of  the  presence 
of  the  visitors  and  the  gangs  of  fellahs  who,  sing- 
ing tlie  while,  are  busy  at  the  diggings  and  the 
clearing  away  of  the  rubbish,  has  emptied  itself 
little  by  little,  while  the  blue  shadows  were  mount- 
ing from  the  base  of  the  monstrous  sanctuaries. 
I watched  the  people  moving  in  a long  row,  like 
a trail  of  ants,  towards  the  western  gate  between 
the  pylons  of  the  Ptolemies,  and  the  last  of  them 
had  disappeared  before  the  rosy  light  died  away 
on  the  topmost  points  of  the  obelisks. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  silence  and  the  night  ar- 
rived together  from  beyond  the  Arabian  desert, 
advanced  together  across  the  plain,  spreading 
out  like  a rapid  oil-stain;  then  gained  the  town 
from  east  to  west,  and  rose  rapidly  from  the 
ground  to  the  very  summits  of  the  temples. 
And  this  march  of  the  darkness  was  infinitely 
solemn. 


Thebes  by  Night  209 

For  the  first  few  moments,  indeed,  you  might 
imagine  that  it  was  going  to  be  an  ordinary  night 
such  as  we  know  in  our  climate,  and  a sense  of 
uneasiness  takes  hold  of  you  in  the  midst  of  this 
confusion  of  enormous  stones,  which  in  the  dark- 
ness would  become  a quite  inextricable  maze. 
Oh!  the  horror  of  being  lost  in  these  ruins  of 
Thebes  and  not  being  able  to  see!  But  in  the 
event  the  air  presented  its  transparency  to  such  a 
degree,  and  the  stars  began  soon  to  scintillate  so 
brightly  that  the  surrounding  things  could  be 
distinguished  almost  as  well  as  in  the  day- 
time. 

Indeed,  now  that  the  time  of  transition  between 
the  day  and  night  has  passed,  the  eyes  grow  9,c- 
customed  to  the  strange,  blue,  persistent  clear- 
ness so  that  you  seem  suddenly  to  have  acquired 
the  pupils  of  a cat;  and  the  ultimate  effect  is 
merely  as  if  you  saw  through  a smoked  glass 
which  changed  all  the  various  shades  of  this 
reddish-coloured  country  into  one  uniform  tint 
of  blue. 

Behold  me  then,  for  some  two  or  three  hours, 
alone  among  the  temples  of  the  Pharaohs.  The 
tourists,  whom  the  carriages  and  donkeys  are  at 
this  moment  taking  back  to  the  hotels  of  Luxor, 
will  not  return  till  very  late,  when  the  full  moon 
will  have  risen  and  be  shedding  its  clear  light 
upon  the  ruins.  My  post,  while  I waited,  was 


210 


Egypt 

high  up  among  the  ruins  on  the  margin  of  the 
sacred  Lake  of  Osiris,  the  still  and  enclosed  water 
of  which  is  astonishing  in  that  it  has  remained 
there  for  so  many  centuries.  It  still  conceals, 
no  doubt,  numberless  treasures  confided  to  it  in 
the  days  of  slaughters  and  pillages,  when  the 
armies  of  the  Persian  and  Nubian  kings  forced 
the  thick,  surrounding  walls. 

In  a few  minutes,  thousands  of  stars  appear  at 
the  bottom  of  this  water,  reflecting  symmetrically 
the  veritable  ones  which  now  scintillate  every- 
where in  the  heavens.  A sudden  cold  spreads 
over  the  town-mummy,  whose  stones,  still  W’arm 
from  their  exposm’e  to  the  sun,  cool  very  rapidly 
in  this  nocturnal  blue  which  envelops  them  as  in 
a shroud.  I am  free  to  wander  where  I please 
without  risk  of  meeting  anyone,  and  I begin  to 
descend  by  the  steps  made  by  the  falling  of  the 
granite  blocks,  which  have  formed  on  all  sides 
staircases  as  if  for  giants.  On  the  oveidumed 
surfaces,  my  hands  encounter  the  deep,  clear- 
cut  hollows  of  the  hieroglyphs,  and  sometimes 
of  those  inevitable  people,  carved  in  profile,  who 
raise  their  arms,  all  of  them,  and  make  signs  to 
one  another.  On  amving  at  the  bottom  I am 
received  by  a row  of  statues  with  battered  faces, 
seated  on  thrones,  and  without  hindrance  of  any 
kind,  and  recognising  everything  in  the  blue 
transparency  which  takes  the  place  of  day,  I 


Thebes  by  Night  211 

come  to  the  great  avenue  of  the  palaces  of 
Amen. 

We  have  nothing  on  earth  in  the  least  degree 
comparable  to  this  avenue,  which  passive  multi- 
tudes took  nearly  three  thousand  years  to  con- 
struct, expending,  century  after  century,  their 
innumerable  energies  in  carrying  these  stones, 
which  our  machines  now  could  not  move.  And 
the  objective  was  always  the  same:  to  prolong 
indefinitely  the  perspectives  of  pylons,  colossi 
and  obelisks,  continuing  always  this  same  artery 
of  temples  and  palaces  in  the  direction  of  the 
old  Nile — ^while  the  latter,  on  the  contrary, 
receded  slowly,  from  century  to  centuiy,  towards 
Libya.  It  is  here,  and  especially  at  night,  that 
you  suffer  the  feeling  of  having  been  shrunken 
to  the  size  of  a pygmy.  All  round  you  rise  mono- 
liths mighty  as  rocks.  You  have  to  take  twenty 
paces  to  pass  the  base  of  a single  one  of  them. 
They  are  placed  quite  close  together,  too  close, 
it  seems,  in  view  of  their  enormity  and  mass. 
There  is  not  enough  air  between  them,  and  the 
closeness  of  their  juxtaposition  disconcerts  you 
more,  perhaps,  even  than  their  massiveness. 

The  avenue  which  I have  followed  in  an  east- 
erly direction  abuts  on  as  disconcerting  a chaos  of 
granite  as  exists  in  Thebes — ^the  hall  of  the  feasts 
of  Thothmes  III.  What  kind  of  feasts  were  they, 
that  this  king  gave  here,  in  this  forest  of  thick- 


212  Egypt 

set  columns,  beneath  these  ceilings,  of  which  the 
smallest  stone,  if  it  fell,  would  crush  twenty 
men?  In  places  the  friezes,  the  colonnades,  which 
seem  almost  diaphanous  in  the  air,  are  outlined 
still  with  a proud  magnificence  in  unbroken 
alignment  against  the  star-strewn  sky.  Elsewhere 
the  destruction  is  bewildering;  fragments  of 
columns,  entablatures,  bas-reliefs  lie  about  in 
indescribable  confusion,  hke  a lot  of  scattered 
wreckage  after  a world-wide  tempest.  For  it 
was  not  enough  that  the  hand  of  man  should 
overturn  these  things.  Tremblings  of  the  earth, 
at  different  times,  have  also  come  to  shake  this 
Cyclops  palace  which  threatened  to  be  eternal. 
And  all  this — which  represents  such  an  excess  of 
force,  of  movement,  of  impulsion,  alike  for  its 
erection  as  for  its  overthrow — all  this  is  tranquil 
this  evening,  oh!  so  tranquil,  although  toppling 
as  if  for  an  imminent  downfall — tranquil  for 
ever,  one  might  say,  congealed  by  the  cold  and 
by  the  night. 

I was  prepared  for  silence  in  such  a place,  but 
not  for  the  sounds  which  I commence  to  hear. 
First  of  all  an  osprey  sounds  the  prelude,  above 
my  head  and  so  close  to  me  that  it  holds  me 
trembling  throughout  its  long  cry.  Then  other 
voices  answer  from  the  depths  of  the  ruins,  voices 
very  diverse,  but  all  sinister.  Some  are  only 
able  to  mew  on  two  long-drawn  notes:  some 


Thebes  by  Night  213 

yelp  like  jackals  round  a cemetery,  and  others 
again  imitate  the  sound  of  a steel  spring  slowly 
unwinding  itself.  And  this  concert  comes  always 
from  above.  Owls,  ospreys,  screech-owls,  all  the 
different  kinds  of  birds,  with  hooked  beaks  and 
round  eyes,  and  silken  wings  that  enable  them  to 
fly  noiselessly,  have  their  homes  amongst  the 
granites  massively  upheld  in  the  air;  and  they 
are  celebrating  now,  each  after  its  own  fashion, 
the  nocturnal  festival.  Intermittent  calls  break 
upon  the  air,  and  long-drawn  infiinitely  mournful 
wailings,  that  sometimes  swell  and  sometimes 
seem  to  be  strangled  and  end  in  a kind  of  sob. 
And  then,  in  spite  of  the  sonority  of  the  vast 
straight  walls,  in  spite  of  the  echoes  which  pro- 
long the  cries,  the  silence  obstinately  returns. 
Silence.  The  silence  after  all  and  beyond  all 
doubt  is  the  true  master  at  this  hour  of  this 
kingdom  at  once  colossal,  motionless  and  blue — 
a silence  that  seems  to  be  infinite,  because  w'e 
know  that  there  is  nothing  around  these  ruins, 
nothing  but  the  line  of  the  dead  sands,  the  thres- 
hold of  the  deserts. 

• •••••• 

I retrace  my  steps  towards  the  west  in  the 
direction  of  the  hypostyle,  traversing  again  the 
avenue  of  monstrous  splendom*s,  imprisoned  and, 
as  it  were,  dwarfed  between  the  rows  of  sovereign 
stones.  There  are  obelisks  there,  some  upright. 


21+  Egypt 

some  overthro^^m.  One  like  those  of  Luxor,  but 
much  higher,  remains  intact  and  raises  its  sharp 
point  into  the  sky;  others,  less  well  knowm  in 
their  exquisite  simphcity,  are  quite  plain  and 
straight  from  base  to  summit,  bearing  only  in 
relief  gigantic  lotus  flowers,  whose  long  climbing 
stems  bloom  above  in  the  half  light  cast  by  the 
stars.  The  passage  becomes  narrower  and  more 
obscure,  and  it  is  necessary  sometimes  to  grope 
my  way.  And  then  again  my  hands  encounter 
the  everlasting  hieroglyphs  canned  everywhere, 
and  sometimes  the  legs  of  a colossus  seated  on 
its  throne.  The  stones  are  still  slightly  warm, 
so  fierce  has  been  the  heat  of  the  sun  during  the 
day.  And  certain  of  the  granites,  so  hard  that 
our  steel  chisels  could  not  cut  them,  have  kept 
their  polish  despite  the  lapse  of  centuries,  and 
my  fingers  slip  in  touching  them. 

There  is  now  no  sound.  The  music  of  the 
night  birds  has  ceased.  I listen  in  vain — so 
attentively  that  I can  hear  the  beating  of  my 
heart.  Not  a sound,  not  even  the  buzzing  of 
a fly.  Everything  is  silent,  everything  is 
ghostly;  and  in  spite  of  the  persistent  warmth 
of  the  stones  the  air  grows  colder  and  colder, 
and  one  gets  the  impression  that  everything 
here  is  frozen — definitively — as  in  the  coldness 
of  death. 

A vast  silence  reigns,  a silence  that  has  sub- 


Thebes  by  Night  215 

sisted  for  centuries,  on  this  same  spot,  where 
formerly  for  three  or  four  thousand  years  rose 
such  an  uproar  of  living  men.  To  think  of  the 
clamorous  multitudes  who  once  assembled  here, 
of  their  cries  of  triumph  and  anguish,  of  their 
dying  agonies ! First  of  all  the  pantings  of  those 
thousands  of  harnessed  workers,  exhausting  them- 
selves generation  after  generation,  under  the 
burning  sun,  in  dragging  and  placing  one  above 
the  other  these  stones,  whose  enormity  now 
amazes  us.  And  the  prodigious  feasts,  the  music 
of  the  long  harps,  the  blares  of  the  brazen  trum- 
pets; the  slaughters  and  battles  when  Thebes 
was  the  great  and  unique  capital  of  the  world, 
an  object  of  fear  and  envy  to  the  kings  of  the 
barbarian  peoples  who  commenced  to  awake  in 
neighbouring  lands;  the  symphonies  of  siege 
and  pillage,  in  days  when  men  bellowed  with 
the  throats  of  beasts.  To  think  of  all  this,  here 
on  this  ground,  on  a night  so  calm  and  blue! 
And  these  same  walls  of  granite  from  Syene,  on 
which  my  puny  hands  now  rest,  to  think  of  the 
beings  who  have  touched  them  in  passing,  who 
have  fallen  by  their  side  in  last  sanguinary  con- 
flicts, without  rubbing  even  the  polish  from  their 
changeless  surfaces! 

••••••• 

I now  arrive  at  the  hypostyle  of  the  temple 
of  Amen,  and  a sensation  of  fear  makes  me 


2i6  Egypt 

hesitate  at  first  on  the  threshold.  To  find  him- 
self in  the  dead  of  night  before  such  a place 
might  well  make  a man  falter.  It  seems  like 
some  hall  for  Titans,  a remnant  of  fabulous  ages, 
which  has  maintained  itself,  during  its  long  dura- 
tion, by  force  of  its  very  massiveness,  like  the 
mountains.  Nothing  human  is  so  vast.  No- 
where on  earth  have  men  conceived  such  dwell- 
ings.  Columns  after  columns,  higher  and  more 
massive  than  towers,  follow  one  another  so 
closely,  in  an  excess  of  accumulation,  that  they 
produce  a feeling  almost  of  suffocation.  They 
mount  into  the  clear  sky  and  sustain  there 
traverses  of  stone  which  you  scarcely  dare  to 
contemplate.  One  hesitates  to  advance;  a feel- 
ing comes  over  you  that  you  are  become  in- 
finitesimally small  and  as  easy  to  crush  as  an 
insect.  The  silence  grows  preternaturally  sol- 
emn. The  stars  through  all  the  gaps  in  the  fear- 
ful ceilings  seem  to  send  their  scintillations 
to  you  in  an  abyss.  It  is  cold  and  clear  and 
blue. 

The  central  bay  of  this  hypostyle  is  in  the 
same  line  as  the  road  I have  been  following 
since  I left  the  hall  of  Thothmes.  It  prolongs 
and  magnifies  as  in  an  apotheosis  that  same  long 
avenue,  for  the  gods  and  kings,  which  was  the 
glory  of  Thebes,  and  which  in  the  succession  of 
the  ages  nothing  has  contrived  to  equal.  The 


Thebes  by  Night  217 

columns  which  border  it  are  so  gigantic  ^ that 
their  tops,  formed  of  mysterious  full-blown 
petals,  high  up  above  the  ground  on  which  we 
crawl,  are  completely  bathed  in  the  diffuse  clear- 
ness of  the  sky.  And  enclosing  this  kind  of 
nave  on  either  side,  like  a terrible  forest,  is 
another  mass  of  colunms — monster  columns,  of 
an  earher  style,  of  which  the  capitals  close 
instead  of  opening,  imitating  the  buds  of  some 
flower  which  will  never  blossom.  Sixty  to  the 
right,  sixty  to  the  left,  too  close  together  for 
their  size,  they  grow  thick  like  a forest  of 
baobabs  that  wanted  space:  they  induce  a feel- 
ing of  oppression  without  possible  dehverance, 
of  massive  and  mournful  eternity. 

And  this,  forsooth,  was  the  place  that  I had 
wished  to  traverse  alone,  without  even  the 
Bedouin  guard,  who  at  night  believes  it  his  duty 
to  follow  the  visitors.  But  now  it  grows  lighter 
and  lighter.  Too  light  even,  for  a blue  phosphor- 
escence, coming  from  the  eastern  horizon,  begins 
to  filter  through  the  opacity  of  the  colonnades 
on  the  right,  outlines  the  monstrous  shafts,  and 
details  them  by  vague  glimmerings  on  their 
edges.  The  full  moon  is  risen,  alas ! and  my  hours 
of  solitude  are  nearly  over. 

• •••••• 

^ About  thirty  feet  in  circumference  and  seventy-five  feet  in 
height  including  the  capital. 


2i8  Egyp^ 

The  moon!  Suddenly  the  stones  of  the 
summit,  the  copings,  the  formidable  friezes,  are 
lighted  by  rays  of  clear  light,  and  here  and  there, 
on  the  bas-reliefs  encircling  the  pillars,  appear 
luminous  trails  which  reveal  the  gods  and  god- 
desses engraved  in  the  stone.  They  were  w'atch- 
ing  in  myriads  around  me,  as  I knew  well, 
— coifed,  all  of  them,  in  discs  or  great  horns. 
They  stare  at  one  another  with  their  arms  raised, 
spreading  out  their  long  figures  in  an  eager 
attempt  at  conversation.  They  are  numberless, 
these  eternally  gesticulating  gods.  Wherever 
you  look  their  forms  are  multiplied  with  a stupe- 
fying repetition.  They  seem  to  have  some 
mysterious  secret  to  convey  to  one  another,  but 
have  perforce  to  remain  silent,  and  for  all  the 
expressiveness  of  their  attitudes  their  hands  do 
not  move.  And  hieroglyphs,  too,  repeated  to 
infinity,  envelop  you  on  all  sides  like  a multiple 
woof  of  mysteiy. 

Minute  by  minute  now,  everything  amongst 
these  rigid  dead  things  grows  more  precise.  Cold, 
hard  rays  penetrate  through  the  immense  ruin, 
separating  with  a sharp  incisiveness  the  light 
from  the  shadows.  The  feeling  that  these 
stones,  wearied  as  they  were  with  their  long 
duration,  might  still  be  thoughtful,  still  mindful 
of  their  past,  grows  less — less  than  it  was  a few 


Thebes  by  Night  219 

moments  before,  far  less  than  during  the  pre- 
ceding blue  phantasmagoria.  Under  this  clear, 
pale  light,  as  in  the  daytime  under  the  fire 
of  the  sun,  Thebes  has  lost  for  the  moment 
whatever  remained  to  it  of  soul ; it  has  re- 
ceded farther  into  the  backward  of  time,  and 
appears  now  nothing  more  than  a vast  gigantic 
fossil  that  excites  only  our  wonder  and  our 
fear. 

• •••••• 

But  the  tourists  will  soon  be  here,  attracted 
by  the  moon.  A league  away,  in  the  hotels 
of  Luxor,  I can  fancy  how  they  have  hurried 
away  from  the  tables,  for  fear  of  missing  the 
celebrated  spectacle.  For  me,  therefore,  it  is 
time  to  beat  a retreat,  and,  by  the  great  avenue 
again,  I direct  my  steps  towards  the  pylons  of 
the  Ptolemies,  where  the  night  guards  are 
waiting. 

They  are  busy  already,  these  Bedouins,  in 
opening  the  gates  for  some  tourists,  who  have 
shown  their  permits,  and  who  carry  Kodaks, 
magnesium  to  light  up  the  temples — quite  an 
outfit  in  short. 

Farther  on,  when  I have  taken  the  road  to 
Luxor,  it  is  not  long  before  I meet,  under  the 
palm-trees  and  on  the  sands,  the  crowd,  the  main 
body  of  the  arrivals — some  in  caniages,  some 
on  horseback,  some  on  donkeys.  There  is  a 


220 


Egypt 

noise  of  voices  speaking'  all  sorts  of  non-Egyptian 
languages.  One  is  tempted  to  ask : “ What  is 
happening?  A ball,  a holiday,  a grand  mar- 
riage? ” No.  The  moon  is  full  to-night  at 
Thebes,  upon  the  ruins.  That  is  all. 


THEBES  IN  SUNLIGHT 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THEBES  IN  SUNLIGHT 

It  is  two  o’clock  in  the  afternoon.  A white 
angry  fire  pours  from  the  sky,  which  is  pale  from 
excess  of  light.  A sun  inimical  to  the  men  of 
our  climate  scorches  the  enormous  fossil  which, 
crumbling  in  places,  is  all  that  remains  of  Thebes 
and  which  lies  there  like  the  carcass  of  a gigantic 
beast  that  has  been  dead  for  thousands  of  years, 
but  is  too  massive  ever  to  be  annihilated. 

In  the  hypostyle  there  is  a little  blue  shade 
behind  the  monstrous  pillars,  but  even  that  shade 
is  dusty  and  hot.  The  columns  too  are  hot,  and 
so  are  all  the  blocks — and  yet  it  is  winter  and 
the  nights  are  cold,  even  to  the  point  of  frost. 
Heat  and  dust;  a reddish  dust,  which  hangs 
like  an  eternal  cloud  over  these  ruins  of  Upper 
Egypt,  exhaling  an  odour  of  spices  and  mummy. 

The  great  heat  seems  to  augment  the  retro- 
spective sensation  of  fatigue  which  seizes  jmu  as 
you  regard  these  stones — too  heavy  for  human 
strength — which  are  massed  here  in  mountains. 
One  almost  seems  to  participate  in  the  efforts, 
the  exhaustions  and  the  sweating  toils  of  that 
people,  with  their  muscles  of  brand  new  steel, 
223 


22+  Egypt 

who  in  the  carrying  and  piling  of  such  masses 
had  to  bear  the  yoke  for  thirty  centuries. 

Even  the  stones  themselves  tell  of  fatigue — 
the  fatigue  of  being  crushed  by  one  another’s 
weight  for  thousands  of  years;  the  suffering  that 
comes  of  having  been  too  exactly  carved,  and 
too  nicely  placed  one  above  the  other,  so  that 
they  seem  to  be  riveted  together  by  the  force  of 
their  mere  weight.  Oh!  the  poor  stones  of  the 
base  that  bear  the  weight  of  these  awful  pilings! 

And  the  ardent  colour  of  these  things  surprises 
you.  It  has  persisted.  On  the  red  sandstone  of 
the  hypostyle,  the  paintings  of  more  than  three 
thousand  years  ago  are  still  to  be  seen ; especially 
above  the  central  chamber,  almost  in  the  sky, 
the  capitals,  in  the  form  of  great  flowers,  have 
kept  the  lapis  blues,  the  greens  and  yellows 
with  which  their  strange  petals  were  long  ago 
bespeckled. 

Decrepitude  and  crumbling  and  dust.  In 
broad  daylight,  under  the  magnificent  splendour 
of  the  life-giving  sun,  one  realises  clearly  that  all 
here  is  dead,  and  dead  since  days  which  the 
imagination  is  scarcely  able  to  conceive.  And 
the  ruin  appears  utterly  irreparable.  Here  and 
there  are  a few  impotent  and  almost  infantine 
attempts  at  reparation,  undertaken  in  the  ancient 
epochs  of  history  by  the  Greeks  and  Romans. 
Columns  have  been  put  together,  holes  have  been 


Thebes  in  Sunlight  225 

filled  with  cement.  But  the  great  blocks  lie  in 
confusion,  and  one  feels,  even  to  the  point  of 
despair,  how  impossible  it  is  ever  to  restore  to 
order  such  a chaos  of  crushing,  overthrown  things 
— even  with  the  help  of  legions  of  workers  and 
machines,  and  with  centuries  before  you  in  which 
to  complete  the  task. 

And  then,  what  surprises  and  oppresses  you 
is  the  want  of  clear  space,  the  little  room  that 
remained  for  the  multitudes  in  these  halls  which 
are  nevertheless  immense.  The  whole  space 
between  the  walls  was  encumbered  with  pillars. 
The  temples  were  half  filled  with  colossal  forests 
of  stone.  The  men  who  built  Thebes  lived  in  the 
beginning  of  time,  and  had  not  yet  discovered 
the  thing  which  to  us  to-day  seems  so  simple — 
namely,  the  vault.  And  yet  they  were  marvel- 
lous pioneers,  these  architects.  They  had  al- 
ready succeeded  in  evolving  out  of  the  dark,  as 
it  were,  a number  of  conceptions  which,  from 
the  beginning  no  doubt,  slumbered  in  mysterious 
germ  in  the  human  brain — the  idea  of  rectitude, 
the  straight  line,  the  right  angle,  the  vertical 
line,  of  which  Nature  furnishes  no  example,  even 
symmetry,  which,  if  you  consider  it  well,  is  less 
explicable  still.  They  employed  symmetry  with 
a consummate  mastery,  understanding  as  well  as 
we  do  all  the  effect  that  is  to  be  obtained  by  the 
repetition  of  like  objects  placed  en  pendant  on 


226 


Egypt 

either  side  of  a portico  or  an  avenue.  But  they 
did  not  invent  the  vault.  And  therefore,  since 
there  was  a limit  to  the  size  of  the  stones  which 
they  were  able  to  place  flat  like  beams,  they  had 
recourse  to  this  profusion  of  columns  to  support 
their  stupendous  ceilings.  And  thus  it  is  that 
there  seems  to  be  a want  of  air,  that  one  seems  to 
stifle  in  the  middle  of  their  temples,  dominated 
and  obstructed  as  they  are  by  the  rigid  presence 
of  so  many  stones.  And  yet  to-day  you  can  see 
quite  clearly  in  these  temples,  for,  since  the  sus- 
pended rocks  which  served  for  roof  have  fallen, 
floods  of  light  descend  from  all  parts.  But 
formerly,  when  a kind  of  half  night  reigned  in 
the  deep  halls,  beneath  the  immovable  carapaces 
of  sandstone  or  granite,  how  oppressive  and 
sepulchral  it  must  all  have  been — how  final  and 
pitiless,  like  a gigantic  palace  of  Death ! On  one 
day,  however,  in  each  year,  here  at  Thebes,  a light 
as  of  a conflagration  used  to  penetrate  from  one 
end  to  the  other  of  the  sanctuaries  of  Amen ; for 
the  middle  artery  is  open  towards  the  north-west, 
and  is  aligned  in  such  a fashion  that,  once  a 
year,  one  solitary  time,  on  the  evening  of  the 
summer  solstice,  the  sun  as  it  sets  is  able  to 
plimge  its  reddened  rays  straight  into  the 
sanctuaries.  At  the  moment  when  it  enlarges 
its  blood-coloured  disc  before  descending  be- 
hind the  desolation  of  the  Libyan  mountains. 


Thebes  in  Sunlight  227 

it  arrives  in  the  very  axis  of  this  avenue,  of 
this  suite  of  aisles,  which  measures  more  than 
800  yards  in  length.  Formerly,  then,  on  these 
evenings  it  shone  horizontally  beneath  the  ter- 
rible ceilings — between  these  rows  of  pillars  which 
are  as  high  as  our  Colonne  Vendome — and  threw, 
for  some  seconds,  its  colours  of  molten  cop- 
per into  the  obscurity  of  the  holy  of  holies. 
And  then  the  whole  temple  would  resound 
with  the  clashing  of  music,  and  the  glory  of  the 
god  of  Thebes  was  celebrated  in  the  depths  of 
the  forbidden  halls. 

• «••••• 

Like  a cloud,  like  a veil,  the  continual  red- 
coloured  dust  floats  everywhere  above  the  ruins, 
and,  athwart  it,  here  and  there,  the  sun  traces 
long,  white  beams.  But  at  one  point  of  the 
avenue,  behind  the  obelisks,  it  seems  to  rise  in 
clouds,  this  dust  of  Egypt,  as  if  it  were  smoke. 
For  the  workers  of  bronze  are  assembled  there 
to-day  and,  hour  by  hour,  without  ceasing,  they 
dig  in  the  sacred  soil.  Ridiculously  small  and 
almost  negligible  by  the  side  of  the  great 
monoliths  they  dig  and  dig.  Patiently  they 
clear  the  ruins,  and  the  earth  goes  away  in  little 
parcels  in  rows  of  baskets  carried  by  children  in 
the  form  of  a chain.  The  periodical  deposits  of 
the  Nile,  and  the  sand  carried  by  the  wind  of  the 
desert,  had  raised  the  soil  by  about  six  yards 


228  Egypt 

since  the  time  when  Thebes  ceased  to  live.  But 
now  men  are  endeavouring  to  restore  the  ancient 
level.  At  first  sight  the  task  seemed  impossible, 
but  they  will  achieve  it  in  the  end,  even  with 
their  simple  means,  these  fellah  toilers,  who  sing 
as  they  labour  at  their  incessant  work  of  ants. 
Soon  the  grand  hypostyle  will  be  freed  from 
rubbish,  and  its  columns,  which  even  before 
seemed  so  tremendous,  uncovered  now  to  the 
base,  have  added  another  twenty  feet  to  their 
height.  A number  of  colossal  statues,  which  lay 
asleep  beneath  this  shroud  of  earth  and  sand, 
have  been  brought  back  to  the  light,  set  upright 
again  and  have  resumed  their  watch  in  the 
intimidating  thoroughfares  for  a new  period  of 
quasi-etemity.  Year  by  year  the  town-mummy 
is  being  slowly  exhmned  by  dint  of  prodigious 
effort ; and  is  repeopled  again  by  gods  and  kings 
who  had  been  hidden  for  thousands  of  years ! ^ 
Year  in,  year  out,  the  digging  continues — deeper 
and  deeper.  It  is  scarcely  known  to  what  depth 
the  debris  and  the  ruins  descend.  Thebes  had 
endured  for  so  many  centm’ies,  the  earth  here  is 
so  penetrated  with  human  past,  that  it  is  averred 
that,  under  the  oldest  of  the  known  temples, 

^ As  is  generally  known,  the  maintenance  of  the  ancient 
monuments  of  Egj'pt  and  their  restoration,  so  far  as  that  may  be 
possible,  has  been  entrusted  to  the  French.  M.  Maspero  has 
delegated  to  Thebes  an  artist  and  a scholar,  M.  Legrain  by 
name,  who  is  devoting  his  life  passionately  to  the  work. 


Thebes  in  Sunlight  229 

there  are  still  others,  older  still  and  more  massive, 
of  which  there  was  no  suspicion,  and  whose  age 
must  exceed  eight  thousand  years. 

In  spite  of  the  burning  sun,  and  of  the  clouds 
of  dust  raised  by  the  blows  of  the  pickaxes,  one 
might  linger  for  hours  amongst  the  dust -stained, 
meagre  fellahs,  watching  the  excavations  in  this 
unique  soil — where  everything  that  is  revealed 
is  by  way  of  being  a surprise  and  a lucky  find, 
where  the  least  carved  stone  had  a past  of  glory, 
formed  part  of  the  first  architectural  splendours, 
was  a stone  of  Thehes.  Scarcely  a moment 
passes  but,  at  the  bottom  of  the  trenches,  as 
the  digging  proceeds,  some  new  thing  gleams. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  polished  flank  of  a colossus, 
fashioned  out  of  granite  from  Syene,  or  a little 
copper  Osiris,  the  debris  of  a vase,  a golden 
trinket  beyond  price,  or  even  a simple  blue 
pearl  that  has  fallen  from  the  necklace  of  some 
waiting-maid  of  a queen. 

This  activity  of  the  excavators,  which  alone 
reanimates  certain  quarters  during  the  day,  ends 
at  sunset.  Every  evening  the  lean  fellahs  receive 
the  daily  wage  of  their  labour,  and  take  them- 
selves off  to  sleep  in  the  silent  neighbourhood  in 
their  huts  of  mud;  and  the  iron  gates  are  shut 
behind  them.  At  night,  except  for  the  guards 
at  the  entrance,  no  one  inhabits  the  ruins. 


230  Egypt 

Crumbling  and  dust.  . . .Far  around,  on  every 
side  of  these  palaces  and  temples  of  the  central 
artery — which  are  the  best  preserved  and  re- 
main proudly  upright — stretch  great  mournful 
spaces,  on  which  the  sun  from  morning  till 
evening  pours  an  implacable  light.  There, 
amongst  the  lank  desert  plants,  lie  blocks  scat- 
tered at  hazard — ^the  remains  of  sanctuaries,  of 
which  neither  the  plan  nor  the  form  will  ever 
be  discovered.  But  on  these  stones,  fragments 
of  the  history  of  the  world  are  still  to  be  read 
in  clear-cut  hieroglyphs. 

To  the  west  of  the  hypostyle  hall  there  is  a 
region  strewn  with  discs,  all  equal  and  all  alike. 
It  might  be  a draught-board  for  Titans  with 
draughts  that  would  measure  ten  yards  in  cir- 
cumference. They  are  the  scattered  fragments, 
slices,  as  it  were,  of  a colonnade  of  the  Ramses. 
Farther  on  the  groimd  seems  to  have  passed 
through  fire.  You  walk  over  blackish  scorise  en- 
crusted Avith  brazen  bolts  and  particles  of  melted 
glass.  It  is  the  quarter  burnt  by  tbe  soldiers  of 
Cambyses.  They  were  great  destroyers  of  the 
queen  city,  were  these  same  Persian  soldiers.  To 
break  up  the  obelisks  and  the  colossal  statues  they 
conceived  the  plan  of  scorching  them  by  lighting 
bonfires  around  them,  and  then,  when  they  saAV 
them  burning  hot,  they  deluged  them  with  cold 
water.  And  the  granites  cracked  from  top  to  base. 


Thebes  in  Sunlight  231 

It  is  well  known,  of  course,  that  Thebes  used 
to  extend  for  a considerable  distance  both  on 
this,  the  right,  bank  of  the  Nile,  where  the 
Pharaohs  resided,  and  opposite,  on  the  Libyan 
bank,  given  over  to  the  preparers  of  mummies 
and  to  the  mortuary  temples.  But  to-day,  ex- 
cept for  the  great  palaces  of  the  centre,  it  is 
little  more  than  a litter  of  ruins,  and  the 
long  avenues,  lined  with  endless  rows  of  sphinxes 
or  rams,  are  lost,  goodness  knows  where,  buried 
beneath  the  sand. 

At  wide  intervals,  however,  in  the  midst  of 
these  cemeteries  of  things,  a temple  here  and 
there  remains  upright,  preserving  still  its  sancti- 
fied gloom  beneath  its  cavernous  carapace.  One, 
where  certain  celebrated  oracles  used  to  be 
delivered,  is  even  more  prisonlike  and  sepulchral 
than  the  others  in  its  eternal  shadow.  High  up 
in  a wall  the  black  hole  of  a kind  of  grotto 
opens,  to  which  a secret  corridor  coming  from 
the  depths  used  to  lead.  It  was  there  that  the 
face  of  the  priest  charged  with  the  annomicement 
of  the  sibylline  words  appeared — and  the  ceiling 
of  his  niche  is  all  covered  still  with  the  smoke 
from  the  flame  of  his  lamp,  which  was  extin- 
guished more  than  two  thousand  years  ago ! 

• •••••• 

What  a number  of  ruins,  scarcely  emerging 
from  the  sand  of  the  desert,  are  hereabout  1 


2 32  Egypt 

And  in  the  old  dried-up  soil,  how  many  strange 
treasures  remain  hidden!  When  the  sun  lights 
thus  the  forlorn  distances,  when  you  perceive 
stretching  away  to  the  horizon  these  fields  of 
death,  you  realise  better  what  kind  of  a place 
this  Thebes  once  was.  Rebuilt  as  it  were  in  the 
imagination  it  appears  excessive,  superabundant 
and  multiple,  like  those  flowers  of  the  antediluvian 
world  which  the  fossils  reveal  to  us.  Compared 
with  it  how  our  modem  towns  are  dwarfed,  and 
our  hasty  little  palaces,  our  stuccoes  and  old  iron ! 

And  it  is  so  mystical,  this  town  of  Thebes, 
with  its  dark  sanctuaries,  once  inhabited  by  gods 
and  symbols.  All  the  sublime,  fresh-minded 
striving  of  the  human  soul  after  the  Unknowable 
is  as  it  were  petrified  in  these  mins,  in  forms 
diverse  and  immeasurably  grand.  And  subsist- 
ing thus  down  to  our  day  it  puts  us  to  shame. 
Compared  with  this  people,  who  thought  onh^ 
of  eternity,  we  are  a lot  of  pitiful  dotards,  who 
soon  will  be  past  caring  about  the  wherefore 
of  life,  or  thought,  or  death.  Such  beginnings 
presaged,  surely,  something  greater  than  our 
humanity  of  the  present  day,  given  over  to  de- 
spair, to  alcohol  and  to  explosives! 

• •••••• 

Crumbling  and  dust!  This  same  sun  of 
Thebes  is  in  its  place  each  day,  parching,  ex- 
hausting, cracking  and  pulverising. 


Thebes  in  Sunlight  233 

On  the  ground  where  once  stood  so  much 
magnificence  there  are  fields  of  com,  spread  out 
like  green  carpets,  which  tell  of  the  return  of  the 
humble  life  of  tillage.  Above  all,  there  is  the 
sand,  encroaching  now  upon  the  very  threshold 
of  the  Pharaohs ; there  is  the  yellow  desert ; there 
is  the  world  of  reflections  and  of  silence,  which 
approaches  like  a slow  submerging  tide.  In  the 
distance,  where  the  mirage  trembles  from  morn- 
ing till  evening,  the  burying  is  already  almost 
achieved.  The  few  poor  stones  which  still  appear, 
barely  emerging  from  the  advancing  dunes,  are 
the  remains  of  what  men,  in  their  superb  revolts 
against  death,  had  contrived  to  make  the  most 
massively  indestmctible. 

And  this  sun,  this  eternal  sun,  which  parades 
over  Thebes  the  irony  of  its  duration — for  us  so 
impossible  to  calculate  or  to  conceive!  No- 
where so  much  as  here  does  one  suffer  from  the 
dismay  of  knowing  that  all  our  miserable  little 
human  effervescence  is  only  a sort  of  fermenta- 
tion round  an  atom  emanated  from  that  sinister 
ball  of  fire,  and  that  that  fire  itself,  the  wonder- 
ful sun,  is  no  more  than  an  ephemeral  meteor, 
a furtive  spark,  thrown  off  during  one  of  the  in- 
numerable cosmic  transformations,  in  the  course 
of  times  without  end  and  without  beginning. 


V 


AN  AUDIENCE  OF 
AMENOPHIS  II. 


I' 

\ 


I 


I 


} 

;■! 


f 

-4 


CHAPTER  XVII 


AN  AUDIENCE  OF  AMENOPHIS  II. 

King  Amenophis  II.  has  resumed  his  receptions, 
which  he  found  himself  obliged  to  suspend  for 
three  thousand,  three  hundred  and  some  odd 
years,  by  reason  of  his  decease.  They  are  very 
well  attended;  court  dress  is  not  insisted  upon, 
and  the  Grand  Master  of  Ceremonies  is  not  above 
taking  a tip.  He  holds  them  every  morning  in 
the  winter  from  eight  o’clock,  in  the  bowels  of  a 
mountain  in  the  desert  of  Libya;  and  if  he  rests 
himself  during  the  remainder  of  the  day  it  is 
only  because,  as  soon  as  midday  soimds,  they  turn 
off  the  electric  light. 

Happy  Amenophis!  Out  of  so  many  kings 
who  tried  so  hard  to  hide  for  ever  their  mummies 
in  the  depths  of  impenetrable  caverns  he  is  the 
only  one  who  has  been  left  in  his  tomb.  And 
he  “ makes  the  most  of  it  ” every  time  he  opens 
his  funereal  salons. 

• •••♦•• 

It  is  important  to  arrive  before  midday  at  the 
dwelling  of  this  Pharaoh,  and  at  eight  o’clock 
sharp,  therefore,  on  a clear  February  morning,  I 
set  out  from  Luxor,  where  for  many  days  my 

237 


238  Egypt 

dahabiya  had  slumbered  against  the  bank  of  the 
Nile.  It  is  necessary  first  of  aU  to  cross  the 
river,  for  the  Theban  kings  of  the  Middle  Empire 
all  established  their  eternal  habitations  on  the 
opposite  bank — far  beyond  the  plains  of  the 
river  shore,  right  away  in  those  mountains  which 
bound  the  horizon  as  with  a wall  of  adorable 
rose-colour.  Other  canoes,  which  are  also  cross- 
ing, glide  by  the  side  of  mine  on  the  tranquil 
water.  The  passengers  seem  to  belong  to  that 
variety  of  Anglo-Saxons  which  is  equipped 
by  Thomas  Cook  & Son  (Egypt  Ltd.),  and 
like  me,  no  doubt,  they  are  bound  for  the  royal 
presence. 

We  land  on  the  sand  of  the  opposite  bank, 
which  to-day  is  almost  deserted.  Formerly  there 
stretched  here  a regular  suburb  of  Thebes — 
that,  namely,  of  the  preparers  of  mmnmies,  with 
thousands  of  ovens  wherein  to  heat  the  natron 
and  the  oils,  which  preserved  the  bodies  from 
coiTuption.  In  this  Thebes,  where,  for  some  fifty 
centuries,  everything  that  died,  whether  man  or 
beast,  was  minutely  prepared  and  swathed  in 
bandages,  it  will  readily  be  imderstood  what 
importance  this  quarter  of  the  embalmers  came 
to  assume.  And  it  was  to  the  neighbouring 
mountains  that  the  products  of  so  many  careful 
wrappings  were  borne  for  burial,  while  the  Nile 
carried  away  the  blood  from  the  bodies  and  the 


An  Audience  of  Amenophis  II.  239 

filth  of  their  entrails.  That  chain  of  living  rocks 
that  rises  before  us,  coloured  each  morning  with 
the  same  rose,  as  of  a tender  flower,  is  literally 
stuffed  with  dead  bodies. 

We  have  to  cross  a wide  plain  before  reaching 
the  mountains,  and  on  our  way  cornflelds  alter- 
nate with  stretches  of  sand  already  desertlike. 
Behind  us  extends  the  old  Nile  and  the  opposite 
bank  which  we  have  lately  quitted — ^the  bank  of 
Luxor,  whose  gigantic  Pharaonic  colonnades  are 
as  it  were  lengthened  below  by  their  own  re- 
flection in  the  mirror  of  the  river.  And  in  this 
radiant  morning,  in  this  pure  light,  it  would  be 
admirable,  this  eternal  temple,  with  its  image 
reversed  in  the  depth  of  the  blue  water,  were  it 
not  that  at  its  sides,  and  to  twice  its  height,  rises 
the  impudent  Winter  Palace,  that  monster  hotel 
built  last  year  for  the  fastidious  tourists.  And 
yet,  who  knows?  The  jackanapes  who  deposited 
this  abomination  on  the  sacred  soil  of  Egypt 
perhaps  imagines  that  he  equals  the  merit  of  the 
artist  who  is  now  restoring  the  sanctuaries  of 
Thebes,  or  even  the  glory  of  the  Pharaohs  who 
built  them. 

As  we  draw  nearer  to  the  chain  of  Libya, 
where  this  king  awaits  us,  we  traverse  fields  still 
green  with  growing  com — and  sparrows  and 
larks  sing  around  us  in  the  impetuous  spring  of 
this  land  of  Thebes. 


2+0  Egypt 

And  now  beyond  two  menhirs,  as  it  were,  be- 
come gradually  distinct.  Of  the  same  height 
and  shape,  alike  indeed  in  every  respect,  they 
rise  side  by  side  in  the  clear  distance  in  the 
midst  of  these  green  plains,  which  recall  so  well 
our  fields  of  France.  They  wear  the  headgear 
of  the  Sphinx,  and  are  gigantic  human  forms 
seated  on  thrones — the  colossal  statues  of  Mem- 
non.  We  recognise  them  at  once,  for  the  picture- 
makers  of  succeeding  ages  have  popularised  their 
aspect,  as  in  the  case  of  the  pyramids.  What  is 
strange  is  that  they  should  stand  there  so  simply 
in  the  midst  of  these  fields  of  growing  corn,  which 
reach  to  their  very  feet,  and  be  surrounded  by 
these  humble  birds  we  know  so  well,  who  sing 
without  ceremony  on  their  shoulders. 

They  do  not  seem  to  be  scandalised  even  at 
seeing  now,  passing  quite  close  to  them,  the  trucks 
of  a playful  little  railway  belonging  to  a local 
industry,  that  are  laden  with  sugar-canes  and 
gourds. 

The  chain  of  Libya,  during  the  last  hour,  has 
been  growing  gradually  larger  against  the  pro- 
found and  excessively  blue  sky.  And  now  that 
it  rises  up  quite  near  to  us,  overheated,  and  as  it 
were  incandescent,  under  this  ten  o’clock  sun,  we 
begin  to  see  on  all  sides,  in  front  of  the  first  rocky 
spurs  of  the  mountains,  the  debris  of  palaces,  col- 
onnades, staircases  and  pylons.  Headless  giants. 


An  Audience  of  Amenophis  II.  241 

swathed  like  dead  Pharaohs,  stand  upright,  with 
hands  crossed  beneath  their  shroud  of  sandstone. 
They  are  the  temples  and  statues  for  the  manes  of 
numberless  kings  and  queens,  who  during  three 
or  four  thousand  years  had  their  mummies  buried 
hard  by  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains,  in  the 
deepest  of  the  walled  and  secret  galleries. 

And  now  the  cornfields  have  ceased ; there  is  no 
longer  any  herbage — nothing.  We  have  crossed 
the  desolate  threshold,  we  are  in  the  desert,  and 
tread  suddenly  upon  a disquieting  funereal  soil, 
half  sand,  half  ashes,  that  is  pitted  on  all 
sides  with  gaping  holes.  It  looks  like  some  region 
that  had  long  been  undermined  by  burrowing 
beasts.  But  it  is  men  who,  for  more  than  fifty 
centuries,  have  vexed  this  ground,  first  to  hide 
the  mummies  in  it,  and  afterwards,  and  until  our, 
day,  to  exhume  them.  Each  of  these  holes  has 
enclosed  its  corpse,  and  if  you  peer  within  you 
may  see  yellow-coloured  rags  still  trailing  there ; 
and  bandages,  or  legs  and  vertebrae  of  thousands 
of  years  ago.  Some  lean  Bedouins,  who  exercise 
the  office  of  excavators,  and  sleep  hard  by  in  holes 
like  jackals,  advance  to  sell  us  scarabaei,  blue- 
glass  trinkets  that  are  half  fossilised,  and  feet  or 
hands  of  the  dead. 

And  now  farewell  to  the  fresh  morning. 
Every  minute  the  heat  becomes  more  oppres- 
sive. The  pathway  that  is  marked  only  by  a 


242  Egypt 

row  of  stones  turns  at  last  and  leads  into  the 
depths  of  the  mountain  by  a tragical  passage. 
We  enter  now  into  that  “ Valley  of  the  Kings  ” 
which  was  the  place  of  the  last  rendezvous  of 
the  most  august  mummies.  The  breaths  of  air 
that  reach  us  between  these  rocks  are  become 
suddenly  burning,  and  the  site  seems  to  belong 
no  longer  to  earth  but  to  some  calcined  planet 
which  had  for  ever  lost  its  clouds  and  atmo- 
sphere. This  Libyan  chain,  in  the  distance  so 
delicately  rose,  is  positively  frightful  now  that  it 
overhangs  us.  It  looks  what  it  is — an  enormous 
and  fantastic  tomb,  a natural  necropolis,  whose 
vastness  and  horror  nothing  human  could  equal, 
an  ideal  stove  for  corpses  that  wanted  to  endure 
for  ever.  The  limestone,  on  which  for  that 
matter  no  rain  ever  falls  from  the  changeless 
sky,  looks  to  be  in  one  single  piece  from  summit 
to  base,  and  betrays  no  crack  or  crevice  by  which 
anything  might  penetrate  into  the  sepulchres 
within.  The  dead  could  sleep,  therefore,  in  the 
heart  of  these  monstrous  blocks  as  sheltered  as 
under  vaults  of  lead.  And  of  what  there  is  of 
magnificence  the  centuries  have  taken  care.  The 
continual  passage  of  winds  laden  with  dust  has 
scaled  and  worn  away  the  face  of  the  rocks,  so 
as  to  leave  only  the  denser  veins  of  stone, 
and  thus  have  reappeared  strange  architectural 
fantasies  such  as  Matter,  in  the  beginning,  might 


An  Audience  of  Amenophis  II.  243 

have  dimly  conceived.  Subsequently  the  sun  of 
Egypt  has  lavished  on  the  whole  its  ardent  red- 
dish patines.  And  now  the  mountains  imitate  in 
places  great  organ-pipes,  badigeoned  with  yellow 
and  carmine,  and  elsewhere  huge  bloodstained 
skeletons  and  masses  of  dead  flesh. 

Outlined  upon  the  excessive  blue  of  the  sky, 
the  summits,  illumined  to  the  point  of  dazzling, 
rise  up  in  the  light — like  red  cinders  of  a glowing 
fire,  splendours  of  living  coal,  against  the  pure 
indigo  that  turns  almost  to  darkness.  We  seem 
to  be  walking  in  some  valley  of  the  Apocalypse 
with  flaming  walls.  Silence  and  death,  beneath 
a transcendent  clearness,  in  the  constant  radiance 
of  a kind  of  mournful  apotheosis — it  was  such 
surroundings  as  these  that  the  Egyptians  chose 
for  their  necropoles. 

The  pathway  plunges  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  stifling  defiles,  and  at  the  end  of  this  “ Valley 
of  the  Kings,”  under  this  sun  now  nearly  merid- 
ian, which  grows  each  minute  more  mournful 
and  terrible,  we  expected  to  come  upon  a dread 
silence.  But  what  is  this? 

At  a turning,  beyond  there,  at  the  bottom  of 
a sinister-looking  recess,  what  does  this  crowd 
of  people,  what  does  this  uproar  mean?  Is  it  a 
meeting,  a fair?  Under  awnings  to  protect  them 
from  the  sun  stand  some  fifty  donkeys,  saddled 
in  the  English  fashion.  In  a comer  an  electrical 


244  Egypt 

workshop,  built  of  new  bricks,  shoots  forth  its 
black  smoke,  and  all  about,  between  the  high, 
blood-coloured  walls,  coming  and  going,  making 
a great  stir  and  gabbhng  to  their  hearts’  content, 
are  a number  of  Cook’s  tourists  of  both  sexes,  and 
some  even  who  verily  seem  to  have  no  sex  at  all. 
They  are  come  for  the  royal  audience;  some  on 
asses,  some  in  jaunting  cars,  and  some,  the  stout 
ladies  who  are  gro^vn  short  of  wind,  in  chairs 
carried  by  the  Bedouins.  From  the  four  points 
of  Europe  they  have  assembled  in  this  desert 
ravine  to  see  an  old  dried-up  corpse  at  the  bottom 
of  a hole. 

Here  and  there  the  hidden  palaces  reveal  their 
dark,  square-shaped  entrances,  hewn  in  the 
massive  rock,  and  over  each  a board  indicates 
the  name  of  a kingly  mummy — Ramses  IV., 
Seti  I.,  Thothmes  III.,  Ramses  IX.,  etc.  Al- 
though all  these  kings,  except  Amenophis  II., 
have  recently  been  removed  and  carried  away  to 
Lower  Egypt,  to  people  the  glass  cases  of  the 
museum  of  Cairo,  their  last  dwellings  have  not 
ceased  to  attract  crowds.  From  each  under- 
ground habitation  are  emerging  now  a number 
of  perspiring  Cooks  and  Cookesses.  And  from 
that  of  Amenophis,  especially,  they  issue  rapidly. 
Suppose  that  we  have  come  too  late  and  that  the 
audience  is  over! 

And  to  think  that  these  entrances  had  been 


An  Audience  of  Amenophis  II.  245 

walled  up,  had  been  masked  with  so  much  care, 
and  lost  for  centuries!  And  of  all  the  persever- 
ance that  was  needed  to  discover  them,  the  ob- 
servation, the  gropings,  the  soundings  and  ran- 
dom discoveries! 

But  now  they  are  being  closed.  We  loitered 
too  long  around  the  colossi  of  Memnon  and  the 
palaces  of  the  plain.  It  is  nearly  noon,  a noon 
consuming  and  mournful,  which  falls  perpendic- 
ularly upon  the  red  summits,  and  is  burning  to 
its  deepest  recesses  the  valley  of  stone. 

At  the  door  of  Amenophis  we  have  to  cajole, 
beseech.  By  the  help  of  a gratuity  the  Bedouin 
Grand  Master  of  Ceremonies  allows  himself  to  be 
persuaded.  We  are  to  descend  with  him,  but 
quickly,  quickly,  for  the  electric  hght  will  soon 
be  extinguished.  It  will  be  a short  audience, 
but  at  least  it  will  be  a private  one.  We  shall 
he  alone  with  the  king. 

In  the  darkness,  where  at  first,  after  so  much 
sunlight,  the  little  electric  lamps  seem  to  us  scarcely 
more  than  glow-worms,  we  expected  a certain 
amount  of  chilliness  as  in  the  undergrounds  of  om- 
climate.  But  here  there  is  only  a more  oppressive 
heat,  stifling  and  withering,  and  we  long  to  re- 
turn to  the  open  air,  which  was  burning  indeed, 
but  was  at  least  the  air  of  life. 

Hastily  we  descend:  by  steep  staircases,  by 
passages  which  slope  so  rapidly  that  they  hurry 


246  Egypt 

US  along  of  themselves,  like  slides ; and  it 
seems  that  we  shall  never  ascend  again,  any 
more  than  the  great  mummy  who  passed  here 
so  long  ago  on  his  way  to  his  eternal  chamber. 
All  this  brings  us,  first  of  all,  to  a deep  well — 
dug  there  to  swallow  up  the  desecrators  in  their 
passage — and  it  is  on  one  of  the  sides  of  this 
oubhette,  behind  a casual  stone  carefully  sealed, 
that  the  continuation  of  these  funeral  galleries 
was  discovered.  Then,  when  we  have  passed 
the  well,  by  a narrow  bridge  that  has  been  thrown 
across  it,  the  stairs  begin  again,  and  the  steep 
passages  that  almost  make  you  run;  but  now, 
by  a sharp  bend,  they  have  changed  their  direc- 
tion. And  still  we  descend,  descend.  Heavens! 
how  deep  down  this  king  dwells!  And  at  each 
step  of  our  descent  we  feel  more  and  more 
imprisoned  under  the  sovereign  mass  of  stone, 
in  the  centre  of  all  this  compact  and  silent 
thickness. 

• •••••• 

The  little  electric  globes,  placed  apart  like  a 
garland,  suffice  now  for  om*  eyes  which  have 
forgotten  the  sun.  And  we  can  distinguish 
aroimd  us  myriad  figures  inviting  us  to  solemnity 
and  silence.  They  are  inscribed  everywhere  on 
the  smooth,  spotless  walls  of  the  colour  of  old 
ivory.  They  follow  one  another  in  regular  order, 
repeating  themselves  obstinately  in  parallel  rows. 


An  Audience  of  Amenophis  II.  247 

as  if  the  better  to  impose  upon  our  spirit,  with 
gestures  and  symbols  that  are  eternally  the 
same.  The  gods  and  demons,  the  representa- 
tions of  Anubis,  with  his  black  jackal’s  head  and 
his  long,  erect  ears,  seem  to  make  signs  to  us 
with  their  long  arms  and  long  fingers:  “No 
noise ! Look,  there  are  mummies  here ! ” The 
wonderful  preservation  of  all  this,  the  vivid 
colours,  the  clearness  of  the  outlines,  begin  to 
cause  a kind  of  stupor  and  bewilderment.  Verily 
you  would  think  that  the  painter  of  these  figures 
of  the  shades  had  only  just  quitted  the  hypogeum. 
All  this  past  seems  to  draw  you  to  itself  like  an 
abyss  to  which  you  have  approached  too  closely. 
It  surrounds  you,  and  little  by  little  masters  you. 
It  is  so  much  at  home  here  that  it  has  remained 
the  present.  Over  and  above  the  mere  descent 
into  the  secret  bowels  of  the  rock  there  has  been 
a kind  of  seizure  with  vertigo,  which  we  had  not 
anticipated  and  which  has  whirled  us  far  away 
into  the  depths  of  the  ages. 

These  interminable,  oppressive  passages,  by 
which  we  have  crawled  to  the  innermost  depths 
of  the  mountain,  lead  at  length  to  something 
vast,  the  walls  divide,  the  vault  expands  and  we 
are  in  the  great  funeral  hall,  of  which  the  blue 
ceiling,  all  bestre>vn  with  stars  like  the  sky,  is 
supported  by  six  pillars  hewn  in  the  rock  itself. 
On  either  side  open  other  chambers  into  which 


248  Egypt 

the  electricity  permits  us  to  see  quite  clearly,  and 
opposite,  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  a large  crypt  is 
revealed,  which  one  divines  instinctively  must 
be  the  resting  place  of  the  Pharaoh.  What  a 
prodigious  labour  must  have  been  entailed  by 
this  perforation  of  the  living  rock!  And  this 
hypogeum  is  not  unique.  All  along  the  “ Valley 
of  the  Kings  ” little  insignificant  doors — which 
to  the  initiated  reveal  the  “ Sign  of  the  Shadow,” 
inscribed  on  their  lintels — lead  to  other  subter- 
ranean places,  just  as  sumptuous  and  perfidiously 
profound,  with  their  snares,  their  hidden  wells, 
their  oubliettes  and  the  bewildering  multiplicity 
of  their  mural  figures.  And  all  these  tombs  this 
morning  were  full  of  people,  and,  if  we  had  not 
had  the  good  fortune  to  arrive  after  the  usual 
hour,  we  should  have  met  here,  even  in  this 
dwelling  of  Amenophis,  a battalion  equipped  by 
Messrs  Cook. 

In  this  hall,  with  its  blue  ceiling,  the  frescoes 
multiply  their  riddles:  scenes  from  the  Book  of 
Hades,  all  the  funeral  ritual  translated  into 
pictures.  On  the  pillars  and  walls  crowd  the 
different  demons  that  an  Egyptian  soul  was 
likely  to  meet  in  its  passage  through  the  country 
of  shadows,  and  underneath  the  passwords  which 
were  to  be  given  to  each  of  them  are  recapitu- 
lated so  as  not  to  be  forgotten. 

For  the  soul  used  to  depart  simultaneously 


An  Audience  of  Amenophis  II.  249 

under  the  two  forms  of  a flame  ^ and  a falcon  ^ 
respectively.  And  this  country  of  shadows, 
called  also  the  west,  to  which  it  had  to  render 
itself,  was  that  where  the  moon  sinks  and  where 
each  evening  the  sun  goes  down;  a coimtry  to 
which  the  living  were  never  able  to  attain, 
because  it  fled  before  them,  however  fast  they 
might  travel  across  the  sands  or  over  the  waters. 
On  its  arrival  there,  the  scared  soul  had  to  parley 
successively  with  the  fearsome  demons  who  lay 
in  wait  for  it  along  its  route.  If  at  last  it  was 
judged  worthy  to  approach  Osiris,  the  great 
Dead  Sun,  it  was  subsumed  in  him  and  reap- 
peared, shining  over  the  world  the  next  morning 
and  on  all  succeeding  mornings  until  the  con- 
summation of  time — a vague  survival  in  the 
solar  splendour,  a continuation  without  person- 
ality, of  which  one  is  scarcely  able  to  say  whether 
or  not  it  was  more  desirable  than  eternal  non- 
existence. 

And,  moreover,  it  was  necessary  to  preserve 
the  body  at  whatever  cost,  for  a certain  double 
of  the  dead  man  continued  to  dwell  in  the  dry 
flesh,  and  retained  a kind  of  half  life,  barely 
conscious.  Lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  sarcoph- 
agus it  was  able  to  see,  by  virtue  of  those  two 
eyes,  which  were  painted  on  the  lid,  always  in 

^ The  Khou,  which  never  returned  to  our  world. 

^ The  Bai,  which  might,  at  its  will,  revisit  the  tomb. 


2 50  Egypt 

the  same  axis  as  the  empty  eyes  of  the  mummy. 
Sometimes,  too,  this  double,  escaping  from  the 
mummy  and  its  box,  used  to  wander  like  a 
phantom  about  the  hypogeum.  And,  in  order 
that  at  such  times  it  might  be  able  to  obtain  nour- 
ishment, a mass  of  mummified  viands  wrapped 
in  bandages  were  amongst  the  thousand  and 
one  things  buried  at  its  side.  Even  natron  and 
oils  were  left,  so  that  it  might  re-embalm  itself, 
if  the  worms  came  to  life  in  its  members. 

Oh!  the  persistence  of  this  double,  sealed 
there  in  the  tomb,  a prey  to  anxiety  lest  corrup- 
tion should  take  hold  of  it;  which  had  to  serve  its 
long  duration  in  suffocating  darkness,  in  absolute 
silence,  without  anything  to  mark  the  days  and 
nights,  or  the  seasons  or  the  centuries,  or  the 
tens  of  centuries  without  end  I It  was  with  such 
a terrible  conception  of  death  as  this  that  each 
one  in  those  days  was  absorbed  in  the  preparation 
of  his  eternal  chamber. 

And  for  Amenophis  II.  this  more  or  less  is 
what  happened  to  his  double.  Unaccustomed 
to  any  kind  of  noise,  after  three  or  four  hundred 
years  passed  in  the  company  of  certain  familiars, 
lulled  in  the  same  heavy  slumber  as  himself,  he 
heard  the  sound  of  muffled  blows  in  the  distance, 
by  the  side  of  the  hidden  well.  The  secret 
entrance  was  discovered : men  were  breaking 
through  its  walls!  Living  beings  were  about  to 


An  Audience  of  Amenophis  II.  251 

appear,  pillagers  of  tombs,  no  doubt,  come  to 
unswathe  them  all!  But  no!  Only  some  priests 
of  Osiris,  advancing  with  fear  in  a funeral 
procession.  They  brought  nine  great  coffins  con- 
taining the  mummies  of  nine  kings,  his  sons, 
grandsons  and  other  unknown  successors,  down  to 
that  King  Setnakht,  who  governed  Egypt  two 
and  a half  centuries  after  him.  It  was  simply  to 
hide  them  better  that  they  brought  them  hither, 
and  placed  them  all  together  in  a chamber  that 
was  immediately  walled  up.  Then  they  departed. 
The  stones  of  the  door  were  sealed  afresh,  and 
everything  fell  again  into  the  old  mournful  and 
burning  darkness. 

Slowly  the  centuries  rolled  on — perhaps  ten, 
perhaps  twenty — in  a silence  no  longer  even 
disturbed  by  the  scratchings  of  the  worms,  long 
since  dead.  And  a day  came  when,  at  the  side 
of  the  entrance,  the  same  blows  were  heard 
again.  . . . And  this  time  it  was  the  robbers. 
Carrying  torches  in  their  hands,  they  rushed 
headlong  in,  with  shouts  and  cries  and,  except  in 
the  safe  hiding  place  of  the  nine  coffins,  every- 
thing was  plimdered,  the  bandages  torn  off,  the 
golden  trinkets  snatched  from  the  necks  of  the 
mummies.  Then,  when  they  had  sorted  their 
booty,  they  walled  up  the  entrance  as  before,  and 
went  their  way,  leaving  an  inextricable  confusion 
of  shrouds,  of  human  bodies,  of  entrails  issuing 


252  Egypt 

from  shattered  vases,  of  broken  gods  and  em- 
blems. 

Afterwards,  for  long  centuries,  there  was 
silence  again,  and  finally,  in  our  days,  the  double, 
then  in  its  last  weakness  and  almost  non-existent, 
perceived  the  same  noise  of  stones  being  imsealed 
by  blows  of  pickaxes.  The  third  time,  the  Hving 
men  who  entered  were  of  a race  never  seen 
before.  At  first  they  seemed  respectful  and 
pious,  only  touching  things  gently.  But  they 
came  to  plunder  everything,  even  the  nine 
coffins  in  their  still  inviolate  hiding  place.  They 
gathered  the  smallest  fragments  with  a solicitude 
almost  religious.  That  they  might  lose  nothing 
they  even  sifted  the  rubbish  and  the  dust.  But, 
as  for  Amenophis,  who  was  already  nothing 
more  than  a lamentable  mummy,  without  jew'^els 
or  bandages,  they  left  him  at  the  bottom  of  his 
sarcophagus  of  sandstone.  And  since  that  day, 
doomed  to  receive  each  morning  numerous  peo- 
ple of  a strange  aspect,  he  dwells  alone  in  his 
hypogeum,  where  there  is  now  neither  a being 
nor  a thing  belonging  to  his  time. 

But  yes,  there  is!  We  had  not  looked  all 
round.  There  in  one  of  the  lateral  chambers 
some  bodies  are  lying,  dead  bodies — three  corpses 
(unswathed  at  the  time  of  the  pillage),  side  by 
side  on  their  rags.  First,  a woman,  the  queen 
probably,  with  loosened  hair.  Her  profile  has 


An  Audience  of  Amenophis  II.  2 53 

presented  its  exquisite  lines.  How  beautiful  she 
still  is!  And  then  a young  boy  with  the  little 
greyish  face  of  a doll.  His  head  is  shaved,  ex- 
cept for  that  long  curl  at  the  right  side,  which 
denotes  a prince  of  the  royal  blood.  And  the 
third  a man.  Ugh!  how  terrible  he  is — looking 
as  if  he  foimd  death  a thing  irresistibly  comical. 
He  even  writhes  with  laughter,  and  eats  a corner 
of  his  shroud  as  if  to  prevent  himself  from  burst- 
ing into  a too  unseemly  mirth. 

And  then,  suddenly,  black  night!  And  we 
stand  as  if  congealed  in  om’  place.  The  electric 
light  has  gone  out — everywhere  at  once.  Above, 
on  the  earth,  midday  must  have  sounded — for 
those  who  still  have  cognisance  of  the  sun  and 
the  hours. 

The  guard  who  has  brought  us  hither  shouts 
in  his  Bedouin  falsetto,  in  order  to  get  the  light 
switched  on  again,  but  the  infinite  thickness  of 
the  walls,  instead  of  prolonging  the  vibrations, 
seems  to  deaden  them;  and  besides,  who  could 
hear  us,  in  the  depths  where  we  now  are?  Then, 
groping  in  the  absolute  darkness,  he  makes  his 
way  up  the  sloping  passage.  The  hurried  patter 
of  his  sandals  and  the  flapping  of  his  burnous 
grow  faint  in  the  distance,  and  the  cries  that  he 
continues  to  utter  sound  so  smothered  to  us  soon 
that  we  might  ourselves  be  buried.  And  mean- 
while we  do  not  move.  But  how  comes  it  that  it 


2 5+  Egypt 

is  so  hot  amongst  these  mummies?  It  seems  as 
if  there  were  fires  burning  in  some  oven  close  by. 
And  above  all  there  is  a want  of  air.  Perhaps 
the  corridors,  after  our  passage,  have  con- 
tracted, as  happens  sometimes  in  the  anguish 
of  dreams.  Perhaps  the  long  fissure  by  which 
we  have  crawled  hither,  perhaps  it  has  closed  in 
upon  us.  . . . 

But  at  length  the  cries  of  alaiTn  are  heard  and 
the  light  is  turned  on  again.  The  three  corpses 
have  not  profited  by  the  unguarded  moments  to 
attempt  any  aggressive  movement.  Their  posi- 
tions, their  expressions  have  not  changed:  the 
queen  calm  Snd  beautiful  as  ever ; the  man  eating 
still  the  corner  of  his  rags  to  stifle  that  mad 
laughter  of  thirty-three  centuries. 

The  Bedouin  has  now  returned,  breathless 
from  his  journey.  He  urges  us  to  come  to  see 
the  king  before  the  electric  light  is  again  extin- 
guished, and  this  time  for  good  and  all.  Behold 
us  now  at  the  end  of  the  hall,  on  the  edge  of 
a dark  crypt,  leaning  over  and  peering  within. 
It  is  a place  oval  in  form,  with  a vault  of  a 
funereal  black,  relieved  by  frescoes,  either  white 
or  of  the  colour  of  ashes.  They  represent,  these 
frescoes,  a whole  new  register  of  gods  and 
demons,  some  slim  and  sheathed  narrowly  like 
mummies,  others  with  big  heads  and  big  bellies 
hke  hippopotami.  Placed  on  the  ground  and 


An  Audience  of  Amenophis  II.  255 

watched  from  above  by  all  these  figures  is  an 
enormous  sarcophagus  of  stone,  wide  open;  and 
in  it  we  can  distinguish  vaguely  the  outline  of  a 
human  body : the  Pharaoh ! 

At  least  we  should  have  liked  to  see  him 
better.  The  necessary  light  is  forthcoming  at 
once:  the  Bedouin  Grand  Master  of  Ceremonies 
touches  an  electric  button  and  a powerful  lamp 
illumines  the  face  of  Amenophis,  detailing  with 
a clearness  that  almost  frightens  you  the  closed 
eyes,  the  grimacing  countenance,  and  the 
whole  of  the  sad  mummy.  This  theatrical  ef- 
fect took  us  by  surprise;  we  were  not  prepared 
for  it. 

He  was  buried  in  magnificence,  but  the  pil- 
lagers have  stripped  him  of  everything,  even  of 
his  beautiful  breastplate  of  tortoiseshell,  which 
came  to  him  from  a far-off  Oriental  country,  and 
for  many  centuries  now  he  has  slept  half  naked 
on  his  rags.  But  his  poor  bouquet  is  there  still 
— of  mimosa,  recognisable  even  now,  and  who 
will  ever  teU  what  pious  or  perhaps  amorous  hand 
it  was  that  gathered  these  flowers  for  him,  more 
than  three  thousand  years  ago. 

The  heat  is  suffocating.  The  whole  crushing 
mass  of  this  mountain,  of  this  block  of  limestone, 
into  which  we  have  crawled  through  relatively 
imperceptible  holes,  like  white  ants  or  larvae, 
seems  to  weigh  upon  our  chest.  And  these 


256  Egypt 

figures  too,  inscribed  on  every  side,  and  this 
mystery  of  the  hieroglyphs  and  the  symbols, 
cause  a growing  uneasiness.  You  are  too  near 
them,  they  seem  too  much  the  masters  of  the 
exits,  these  gods  with  their  heads  of  falcon,  ibis 
and  jackal,  who,  on  the  walls,  converse  in  a con- 
tinual exalted  pantomime.  And  then  the  feeling 
comes  over  you,  that  you  are  guilty  of  sacrilege 
standing  there,  before  this  open  coffin,  in  this  un- 
wonted insolent  light.  The  dolorous,  blackish 
face,  half  eaten  away,  seems  to  ask  for  mercy: 
“ Yes,  yes,  my  sepulchre  has  been  violated  and 
I am  returning  to  dust.  But  now  that  you  have 
seen  me,  leave  me,  turn  out  that  light,  have 
pity  on  my  nothingness.” 

In  sooth,  what  a mockery!  To  have  taken 
so  many  pains,  to  have  adopted  so  many  strata- 
gems to  hide  his  corpse ; to  have  exhausted 
thousands  of  men  in  the  hewing  of  this  under- 
ground labyrinth,  and  to  end  thus,  with  his  head 
in  the  glare  of  an  electric  lamp,  to  amuse 
whoever  passes. 

And  out  of  pity — I think  it  was  the  poor 
bouquet  of  mimosa  that  awakened  it — I say  to 
the  Bedouin:  “Yes,  put  out  the  light,  put  it 
out — that  is  enough.” 

And  then  the  darkness  returns  above  the  royal 
countenance,  which  is  suddenly  effaced  in  the 
sarcophagus.  The  phantom  of  the  Pharaoh  is 


An  Audience  of  Amenophis  II.  257 

vanished,  as  if  replunged  into  the  unfathomable 
past.  The  audience  is  over. 

And  we,  who  are  able  to  escape  from  the  horror 
of  the  hypogeum,  reascend  rapidly  towards  the 
sunshine  of  the  living,  we  go  to  breathe  the 
air  again,  the  air  to  which  we  have  still  a right 
— for  some  few  days  longer. 


< 


AT  THEBES  IN  THE  TEMPLE 
OF  THE  OGRESS 


f 


i; 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


AT  THEBES  IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  OGRESS 

This  evening,  in  the  vast  chaos  of  ruins — at  the 
hour  in  which  the  light  of  the  sun  begins  to  turn 
to  rose — I make  my  way  along  one  of  the  magnif- 
icent roads  of  the  town-mummy,  that,  in  fact, 
which  goes  off  at  a right  angle  to  the  line  of  the 
temples  of  Amen,  and,  losing  itself  more  or  less 
in  the  sands,  leads  at  length  to  a sacred  lake  on 
the  border  of  which  certain  cat-headed  goddesses 
are  seated  in  state  watching  the  dead  water  and 
the  expanse  of  the  desert.  This  particular  road 
was  begun  three  thousand  four  hundred  years 
ago  by  a beautiful  queen  called  INIakeri,^  and  in 
the  following  centuries  a number  of  kings  con- 
tinued its  construction.  It  was  ornamented  with 
pylons  of  a superb  massiveness — pylons  are  mon- 
umental walls,  in  the  form  of  a trapezium  with  a 
wide  base,  covered  entirely  with  hieroglyphs, 
which  the  Egyptians  used  to  place  at  either  side 
of  their  porticoes  and  long  avenues — as  well  as 
by  colossal  statues  and  interminable  rows  of  rams, 
larger  than  buffaloes,  crouched  on  pedestals. 

1 To-day  the  mummy  with  the  baby  in  the  museum  at  Cairo. 

261 


262  Egypt 

At  the  first  pylons  I have  to  make  a detour. 
They  are  so  ruinous  that  their  blocks,  fallen 
down  on  all  sides,  have  closed  the  passage.  Here 
used  to  watch,  on  right  and  left,  two  upright 
giants  of  red  granite  from  Syene.  Long  ago, 
in  times  no  longer  precisely  known,  they  were 
broken  off,  both  of  them,  at  the  height  of  the 
loins.  But  their  muscular  legs  have  kept  their 
proud,  marching  attitude,  and  each  in  one  of  the 
armless  hands,  which  reach  to  the  end  of  the 
cloth  that  girds  their  loins,  clenches  passionately 
the  emblem  of  eternal  life.  And  this  Syenite 
granite  is  so  hard  that  time  has  not  altered  it  in 
the  least;  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion  of  stones 
the  thighs  of  these  mutilated  giants  gleam  as  if 
they  had  been  polished  yesterday. 

Farther  on  we  come  upon  the  second  pylons, 
foundered  also,  before  which  stands  a row  of 
Pharaohs. 

On  every  side  the  overthrown  blocks  display 
their  utter  confusion  of  gigantic  things  in  the 
midst  of  the  sand  which  continues  patiently  to 
bury  them.  And  here  now  are  the  third  pylons, 
flanked  by  their  two  marching  giants,  who  have 
neither  head  nor  shoulders.  And  the  road, 
marked  majestically  still  by  the  debris,  continues 
to  lead  towards  the  desert. 

And  then  the  fourth  and  last  pylons,  which 
seem  at  first  sight  to  mark  the  extremity  of  the 


In  the  Temple  of  the  Ogress  263 

ruins,  the  beginning  of  the  desert  nothingness. 
Time-worn  and  uncrowned,  but  stiff  and  upright 
still,  they  seem  to  be  set  there  so  solidly  that 
nothing  could  ever  overthrow  them.  The  two 
colossal  statues  which  guard  them  on  the  right 
and  left  are  seated  on  thrones.  One,  that  on  the 
eastern  side,  has  almost  disappeared.  But  the 
other  stands  out  entire  and  white,  with  the  white- 
ness of  marble,  against  the  brown-coloured  back- 
ground of  the  enormous  stretch  of  wall  covered 
with  hieroglyphs.  His  face  alone  has  been  muti- 
lated; and  he  preserves  still  his  imperious  chin, 
his  ears,  his  Sphinx’s  headgear,  one  might  al- 
most say  his  meditative  expression,  before  this 
deployment  of  the  vast  solitude  which  seems  to 
begin  at  his  very  feet. 

Here  however  was  only  the  boundary  of  the 
quarters  of  the  God  Amen.  The  boundary  of 
Thebes  was  much  farther  on,  and  the  avenue 
which  will  lead  me  directly  to  the  home  of  the 
cat-headed  goddesses  extends  farther  still  to  the 
old  gates  of  the  town;  albeit  you  can  scarcely 
distinguish  it  between  the  double  row  of  Krio- 
sphinxes  all  broken  and  well-nigh  buried. 

The  day  falls,  and  the  dust  of  Egypt,  in  ac- 
cordance with  its  invariable  practice  every  even- 
ing, begins  to  resemble  in  the  distance  a powder 
of  gold.  I look  behind  me  from  time  to  time 
at  the  giant  who  watches  me,  seated  at  the  foot 


264  Egypt 

of  his  pylon  on  which  the  history  of  a Pharaoh 
is  carved  in  one  immense  picture.  Above  him 
and  above  his  wall,  which  grows  each  minute 
more  rose-coloured,  I see,  gradually  mounting  in 
proportion  as  I move  away  from  it,  the  great 
mass  of  the  palaces  of  the  centre,  the  hypostyle 
hall,  the  halls  of  Thothmes  and  the  obelisks, 
all  the  entangled  cluster  of  those  things  at  once 
so  grand  and  so  dead,  which  have  never  been 
equalled  on  earth. 

And  as  I continue  to  gaze  upon  the  ruins, 
resplendent  now  in  the  rosy  apotheosis  of  the 
evening,  they  come  to  look  like  the  crumbling 
remains  of  a gigantic  skeleton.  They  seem  to 
be  begging  for  a merciful  surcease,  as  if  they 
were  tired  of  this  endless  gala  colouring  at  each 
setting  of  the  sun,  which  mocks  them  with  its 
eternity. 

All  this  is  now  a long  way  behind  me;  but 
the  air  is  so  limpid,  the  outlines  remain  so 
clear  that  the  illusion  is  rather  that  the  temples 
and  the  pylons  grow  smaller,  lower  themselves 
and  sink  into  the  earth.  The  white  giant  who 
follows  me  always  with  his  sightless  stare  is  now 
reduced  to  the  proportions  of  a simple  human 
dreamer.  His  attitude  moreover  has  not  the 
rigid  hieratic  aspect  of  the  other  Theban  statues. 
With  his  hands  upon  his  knees  he  looks  like 
a mere  ordinary  mortal  who  had  stopped  to 


In  the  Temple  of  the  Ogress  265 

reflect/  I have  known  him  for  many  days — for 
many  days  and  many  nights,  for,  what  with  his 
whiteness  and  the  transparency  of  these  Egyptian 
nights,  I have  seen  him  often  outlined  in  the  dis- 
tance under  the  dim  light  of  the  stars — a great 
phantom  in  his  contemplative  pose.  And  I feel 
myself  obsessed  now  by  the  continuance  of  his 
attitude  at  this  entrance  of  the  ruins — I who  shall 
pass  without  a morrow  from  Thebes  and  even 
from  the  earth — even  as  we  all  pass.  Before  con- 
scious life  was  vouchsafed  to  me  he  was  there,  had 
been  there  since  times  which  make  you  shudder 
to  think  upon.  For  three  and  thirty  centuries, 
or  thereabouts,  the  eyes  of  myriads  of  imknown 
men  and  women,  who  have  gone  before  me,  saw 
him  just  as  I see  him  now,  tranquil  and  white,  in 
this  same  place,  seated  before  this  same  threshold, 
with  his  head  a little  bent,  and  his  pervading  air 
of  thought. 

I make  my  way  without  hastening,  having 
always  a tendency  to  stop  and  look  behind 
me,  to  watch  the  silent  heap  of  palaces  and  the 
white  dreamer,  which  now  are  all  illumined 
with  a last  Bengal  fire  in  the  daily  setting  of 
the  sun. 

And  the  hour  is  already  twilight  when  I reach 
the  goddesses. 

Their  domain  is  so  destroyed  that  the  sands 

^ Statue  of  Amenophis  IIT. 


266 


Egypt 

had  succeeded  in  covering  and  hiding  it  for  cen- 
turies. But  it  has  lately  been  exhumed. 

There  remain  of  it  now  only  some  fragments 
of  columns,  aligned  in  multiple  rows  in  a vast 
extent  of  desert.  Broken  and  fallen  stones  and 
debris.^  I walk  on  without  stopping,  and  at 
length  reach  the  sacred  lake  on  the  margin  of 
which  the  great  cats  are  seated  in  eternal  council, 
each  one  on  her  throne.  The  lake,  dug  by  order 
of  the  Pharaohs,  is  in  the  form  of  an  arc,  like 
a kind  of  crescent.  Some  marsh  birds,  that  are 
about  to  retire  for  the  night,  now  traverse  its 
mournful,  sleeping  water.  Its  borders,  which 
have  known  the  utmost  of  magnificence,  are  be- 
come mere  heaps  of  ruins  on  which  nothing  grows. 
And  what  one  sees  beyond,  what  the  attentive 
goddesses  themselves  regard,  is  the  empty  deso- 
late plain,  on  which  some  few  poor  fields  of  corn 
mingle  in  this  twilight  hour  Math  the  sad  infini- 
tude of  the  sands.  And  the  whole  is  bounded  on 
the  horizon  by  the  chain,  still  a little  rose-coloured, 
of  the  limestones  of  Arabia. 

They  are  there,  the  cats,  or,  to  speak  more 
exactly,  the  lionesses,  for  cats  would  not  have 
those  short  ears,  or  those  cruel  chins,  thickened 
by  tufts  of  beard.  All  of  black  granite,  images 
of  Sekhet  (who  was  the  Goddess  of  War,  and  in 
her  hours  the  Goddess  of  Lust),  they  have  the 
^ The  temple  of  the  Goddess  Mut. 


In  the  Temple  of  the  Ogress  267 

slender  body  of  a woman,  which  makes  more  ter- 
rible the  great  feline  head  surmounted  by  its  high 
bonnet.  Eight  or  ten,  or  perhaps  more,  they 
are  more  disquieting  in  that  they  are  so  numerous 
and  so  alike.  They  are  not  gigantic,  as  one  might 
have  expected,  but  of  ordinary  human  stature 
— easy  therefore  to  carry  away,  or  to  destroy, 
and  that  again,  if  one  reflects,  augments  the 
singular  impression  they  cause.  When  so  many 
colossal  flgures  lie  in  pieces  on  the  ground,  how 
comes  it  that  they,  little  people  seated  so  tran- 
quilly on  their  chairs,  have  contrived  to  remain 
intact,  during  the  passing  of  the  three  and  thirty 
centuries  of  the  world’s  history? 

The  passage  of  the  marsh  birds,  which  for  a 
moment  disturbed  the  clear  mirror  of  the  lake, 
has  ceased.  Around  the  goddesses  nothing  moves 
and  the  customary  infinite  silence  envelops  them 
as  at  the  fall  of  every  night.  They  dwell  indeed 
in  such  a forlorn  comer  of  the  mins!  Who,  to 
be  sure,  even  in  broad  daylight,  would  think  of 
visiting  them? 

Down  there  in  the  west  a trailing  cloud  of 
dust  indicates  the  departure  of  the  tourists, 
who  had  flocked  to  the  temple  of  Amen,  and  now 
hasten  back  to  Luxor,  to  dine  at  the  various 
tables  d’hote.  The  ground  here  is  so  felted  with 
sand  that  in  the  distance  we  cannot  hear  the  roll- 
ing of  their  carriages.  But  the  knowledge  that 


268 


Egypt 

they  are  gone  renders  more  intimate  the  inter- 
view with  these  numerous  and  identical  goddesses, 
who  little  by  little  have  been  draped  in  shadow. 
Their  seats  turn  their  backs  to  the  palaces  of 
Thebes,  which  now  begin  to  be  bathed  in  violet 
waves  and  seem  to  sink  towards  the  horizon,  to 
lose  each  minute  something  of  their  importance 
before  the  sovereignty  of  the  night. 

And  the  black  goddesses,  with  their  lioness’ 
heads  and  tall  headgear — seated  there  with  their 
hands  upon  their  knees,  with  eyes  fixed  since  the 
beginning  of  the  ages,  and  a disturbing  smile  on 
their  thick  lips,  like  those  of  a wild  beast — con- 
tinue to  regard — beyond  the  little  dead  lake — 
that  desert,  which  now  is  only  a confused  im- 
mensity, of  a bluish  ashy-grey.  And  the  fancy 
seizes  you  that  they  are  possessed  of  a kind  of 
life,  which  has  come  to  them  after  long  waiting, 
by  virtue  of  that  expression  which  they  have  worn 
on  their  faces  so  long,  oh!  so  long. 

• •••••• 

Beyond,  at  the  other  extremity  of  the  ruins, 
there  is  a sister  of  these  goddesses,  taller  than 
they,  a great  Sekhet,  whom  in  these  parts  men 
call  the  Ogress,  and  who  dwells  alone  and  up- 
right, ambushed  in  a narrow  temple.  Amongst 
the  fellahs  and  the  Bedouins  of  the  neighbour- 
hood she  enjoys  a very  bad  reputation,  it  being 
her  custom  of  nights  to  issue  from  her  temple. 


In  the  Temple  of  the  Ogress  269 

and  devour  men;  and  none  of  them  would  will- 
ingly venture  near  her  dwelling  at  this  late  hour. 
But  instead  of  returning  to  Luxor,  like  the  good 
people  whose  carriages  have  just  departed,  I 
rather  choose  to  pay  her  a visit. 

Her  dwelling  is  some  distance  away,  and  I 
shall  not  reach  it  till  the  dead  of  night. 

First  of  all  I have  to  retrace  my  steps,  to 
return  along  the  whole  avenue  of  rams,  to  pass 
again  by  the  feet  of  the  white  giant,  who  has 
already  assumed  his  phantomlike  appearance, 
while  the  violet  waves  that  bathed  the  town- 
mummy  thicken  and  turn  to  a greyish-blue. 
And  then,  leaving  behind  me  the  pylons  guarded 
by  the  broken  giants,  I thread  my  way  among 
the  palaces  of  the  centre. 

It  is  among  these  palaces  that  I encounter  for 
good  and  all  the  night,  with  the  first  cries  of  the 
owls  and  ospreys.  It  is  still  warm  there,  on 
account  of  the  heat  stored  by  the  stones  during 
the  day,  but  one  feels  nevertheless  that  the  air  is 
freezing. 

At  a crossing  a tall  human  figure  looms  up, 
draped  in  black  and  armed  with  a baton.  It  is 
a roving  Bedouin,  one  of  the  guards,  and  this 
more  or  less  is  the  dialogue  exchanged  between 
us  (freely  and  succinctly  translated)  : 

“ Your  permit,  sir.” 

“ Here  it  is.” 


270 

(Here  we  combine  our  efforts  to  illuminate  the 
said  permit  by  the  light  of  a match.) 

“ Good,  I will  go  with  you.” 

“No.  I beg  of  you.” 

“Yes;  I had  better.  Where  are  you  go- 
ing? ” 

“ Beyond,  to  the  temple  of  that  lady — you 
know,  who  is  great  and  powerful  and  has  a face 
like  a lioness.” 

“ All!  . . . Yes,  I think  I understand  that  you 
would  prefer  to  go  alone.”  (Here  the  intonation 
becomes  infantine.)  “ But  you  are  a kind  gentle- 
man and  will  not  forget  the  poor  Bedouin  aU 
the  same.” 

He  goes  his  way.  On  leaving  the  palaces  I 
have  still  to  traverse  an  extent  of  uncultivated 
country,  where  a veritable  cold  seizes  me.  Above 
my  head  no  longer  the  heavy  suspended  stones, 
but  the  far-off  expanse  of  the  blue  night  sky — 
where  are  shining  now  myriads  upon  myriads  of 
stars.  For  the  Thebans  of  old  this  beautiful 
vault,  scintillating  always  with  its  powder  of 
diamonds,  shed  no  doubt  only  serenity  upon  their 
souls.  But  for  us,  wJio  know,  alas!  it  is  on  the 
contrary  the  field  of  the  great  fear,  which,  out 
of  pity,  it  would  have  been  better  if  we  had 
never  been  able  to  see ; the  incommensurable  black 
void,  where  the  worlds  in  their  frenzied  whirling 
precipitate  themselves  like  rain,  crash  into  and 


In  the  Temple  of  the  Ogress  271 

annihilate  one  another,  only  to  be  renewed  for 
fresh  eternities. 

All  this  is  seen  too  vividly,  the  horror  of  it  be- 
comes intolerable,  on  a clear  night  like  this,  in 
a place  so  silent  and  littered  so  with  ruins.  More 
and  more  the  cold  penetrates  you — the  mournful 
cold  of  the  sidereal  spheres  from  which  nothing 
now  seems  to  protect  you,  so  rarefied — almost 
non-existent — does  the  limpid  atmosphere  ap- 
pear. And  the  gravel,  the  poor  dried  herbs,  that 
crackle  under  foot,  give  the  illusion  of  the  crunch- 
ing noise  we  know  at  home  on  winter  nights  when 
the  frost  is  on  the  ground. 

I approach  at  length  the  temple  of  the  Ogress. 
These  stones  which  now  appear,  whitish  in 
the  night,  this  secret-looking  dwelling  near  the 
boundary  wall  of  Thebes,  proclaim  the  spot,  and 
verily  at  such  an  hour  as  this  it  has  an  evil 
aspect.  Ptolemaic  columns,  little  vestibules,  lit- 
tle courtyards  where  a dim  blue  light  enables 
you  to  find  your  way.  Nothing  moves;  not 
even  the  flight  of  a night  bird:  an  absolute 
silence,  magnified  awfully  by  the  presence  of  the 
desert  which  you  feel  encompasses  you  beyond 
these  walls.  And  beyond,  at  the  bottom,  three 
chambers  made  of  massive  stone,  each  with  its 
separate  entrance.  I know  that  the  first  two  are 
empty.  It  is  in  the  third  that  the  Ogress  dwells, 
unless,  indeed,  she  have  already  set  out  upon  her 


272 

nocturnal  hunt  for  human  flesh.  Pitch  darkness 
reigns  within  and  I have  to  grope  my  way. 
Quickly  I light  a match.  Yes,  there  she  is 
indeed,  alone  and  upright,  almost  part  of  the  end 
wall,  on  which  my  little  light  makes  the  horrible 
shadow  of  her  head  dance.  The  match  goes  out 
- — irreverently  I light  many  more  under  her  chin, 
under  that  heavy,  man-eating  jaw.  In  very 
sooth,  she  is  terrifying.  Of  black  granite — like 
her  sisters,  seated  on  the  margin  of  the  mournful 
lake — but  much  taller  than  they,  from  six  to  eight 
feet  in  height,  she  has  a woman’s  body,  ex- 
quisitely slim  and  young,  with  the  breasts  of  a 
virgin.  Very  chaste  in  attitude,  she  holds  in 
her  hand  a long-stenmied  lotus  flower,  but  by  a 
contrast  that  nonplusses  and  paralyses  you  the 
dehcate  shoulders  support  the  monstrosity  of  a 
huge  lioness’  head.  The  lappets  of  her  bonnet 
fall  on  either  side  of  her  ears  almost  down  to  her 
breast,  and  surmounting  the  bonnet,  by  way  of 
addition  to  the  mysterious  pomp,  is  a large  moon 
disc.  Her  dead  stare  gives  to  the  ferocity  of  her 
visage  something  unreasoning  and  fatal;  an  ir- 
responsible ogress,  without  pity  as  without  pleas- 
ure, devouring  after  the  manner  of  Nature  and  of 
Time.  And  it  was  so  perhaps  that  she  was 
understood  by  the  initiated  of  ancient  Egypt,  who 
symbolised  everything  for  the  people  in  the  fig- 
ures of  gods. 


In  the  Temple  of  the  Ogress  273 

In  the  dark  retreat,  enclosed  with  defaced 
stones,  in  the  little  temple  where  she  stands, 
alone,  upright  and  grand,  with  her  enormous 
head  and  thrust-out  chin  and  tall  goddess’  head- 
dress— one  is  necessarily  quite  close  to  her.  In 
touching  her,  at  night,  you  are  astonished  to  find 
that  she  is  less  cold  than  the  air;  she  becomes 
somebody,  and  the  intolerable  dead  stare  seems 
to  weigh  you  down. 

During  the  tete-a-tete,  one  thinks  involuntarily 
of  the  surroundings,  of  these  ruins  in  the  desert, 
of  the  prevailing  nothingness,  of  the  cold  beneath 
the  stars.  And,  now,  that  summation  of  doubt 
and  despair  and  terror,  which  such  an  assemblage 
of  things  inspires  in  you,  is  confirmed,  if  one  may 
say  so,  by  the  meeting  with  this  divinity-symbol, 
which  awaits  you  at  the  end  of  the  journey,  to 
receive  ironically  all  human  prayer ; a rigid  horror 
of  granite,  with  an  implacable  smile  and  a devour- 
ing jaw. 


A TOWN  PROMPTLY 
EMBELLISHED 


CHAPTER  XIX 


A TOWN  PROMPTLY  EMBELLISHED 

Eight  years  and  a line  of  railway  have  sufficed 
to  accomplish  its  metamorphosis.  Once  in  Up- 
per Egypt,  on  the  borders  of  Nubia,  there  was 
a little  humble  town,  rarely  visited,  and  want- 
ing, it  must  be  owned,  in  elegance  and  even 
in  comfort. 

Not  that  it  was  without  picturesqueness  and 
historical  interest.  Quite  the  contrary.  The 
Nile,  charged  with  the  waters  of  equatorial 
Africa,  flung  itself  close  by  from  the  height  of  a 
mass  of  black  granite,  in  a majestic  cataract; 
and  then,  before  the  little  Arab  houses,  became 
suddenly  calm  again,  and  flowed  between  islets 
of  fresh  verdure  where  clusters  of  palm-trees 
swayed  their  plumes  in  the  wind. 

And  around  were  a number  of  temples,  of 
hypogea,  of  Roman  ruins,  of  ruins  of  churches 
dating  from  the  first  centuries  of  Christianity. 
The  ground  was  full  of  souvenirs  of  the  great 
primitive  civilisations.  For  the  place,  abandoned 
for  ages  and  lulled  in  the  folds  of  Islam  under 
the  guardianship  of  its  white  mosque,  was  once 
one  of  the  centres  of  the  life  of  the  world. 

277 


278  Egypt 

And,  moreover,  in  the  adjoining  desert,  some 
three  or  four  thousand  years  ago,  the  ancient 
history  of  the  world  had  been  written  by  the 
Pharaohs  in  immortal  hieroglyphics — well-nigh 
everywhere,  on  the  polished  sides  of  the  strange 
blocks  of  blue  and  red  granite  that  lie  scattered 
about  the  sands  and  look  now  like  the  forms  of 
antediluvian  monsters. 

Yes,  but  it  was  necessary  that  all  this  should 
be  co-ordinated,  focused  as  it  were,  and  above 
all  rendered  accessible  to  the  delicate  travellers 
of  the  Agencies.  And  to-day  we  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  announcing  that,  from  December  to 
INI arch,  Assouan  (for  that  is  the  name  of  the 
fortunate  locality)  has  a “ season  ” as  fashionable 
as  those  of  Ostend  or  Spa. 

In  approaching  it,  the  huge  hotels  erected  on 
all  sides — even  on  the  islets  of  the  old  river — 
charm  the  eye  of  the  traveller,  greeting  him  with 
their  welcoming  signs,  which  can  be  seen  a league 
away.  True,  they  have  been  somewhat  hastily 
constructed,  of  mud  and  plaster,  but  they  recall 
none  the  less  those  gracious  palaces  with  which 
the  Compagnie  des  Wagon-Lits  has  dowered  the 
world.  And  how  negligible  now,  how  dwarfed 
by  the  height  of  their  facades,  is  the  poor  little 
town  of  olden  times,  with  its  little  houses, 
whitened  with  chalk,  and  its  baby  minaret. 


A Town  Promptly  Embellished  279 

The  cataract,  on  the  other  hand,  has  disap- 
peared from  Assouan.  The  tutelary  Albion  wisely 
considered  that  it  would  be  better  to  sacrifice  that 
futile  spectacle  and,  in  order  to  increase  the  yield 
of  the  soil,  to  dam  the  waters  of  the  Nile  by 
an  artificial  barrage:  a work  of  solid  masonry 
which  (in  the  words  of  the  Programme  of  Pleas- 
ure Trips)  “ affords  an  interest  of  a very  differ- 
ent nature  and  degree”  (sic). 

But  nevertheless  Cook  & Son — a business  con- 
cern glossed  with  poetry,  as  all  the  world  knows 
— have  endeavoured  to  perpetuate  the  memory 
of  the  cataract  by  giving  its  name  to  a hotel  of 
500  rooms,  which  as  a result  of  their  labours 
has  been  established  opposite  to  those  rocks — 
now  reduced  to  silence — over  which  the  old  Nile 
used  to  seethe  for  so  many  centuries.  “ Cataract 
Hotel  ” — that  gives  the  illusion  still,  does  it  not? 
— and  looks  remarkably  well  at  the  head  of 
a sheet  of  notepaper. 

Cook  & Son  (Egypt  Ltd.)  have  even  gone 
so  far  as  to  conceive  the  idea  that  it  would  be 
original  to  give  to  their  establishment  a certain 
cachet  of  Islam.  And  the  dining-room  repro- 
duces (in  imitation,  of  course — but  then  you 
must  not  expect  the  impossible)  the  interior  of 
one  of  the  mosques  of  Stamboul.  At  the  luncheon 
hour  it  is  one  of  the  prettiest  sights  in  the  world 
to  see,  under  this  imitation  holy  cupola,  all  the 


2 8o  Egypt 

little  tables  crowded  with  Cook’s  tourists  of  both 
sexes,  the  while  a concealed  orchestra  strikes  up 
the  “ Mattchiche.” 

The  dam,  it  is  true,  in  suppressing  the  cataract 
has  raised  some  thirty  feet  or  so  the  level  of  the 
water  upstream,  and  by  so  doing  has  submerged 
a certain  Isle  of  Philae,  which  passed,  absurdly 
enough,  for  one  of  the  marvels  of  the  world  by 
reason  of  its  great  temple  of  Isis,  surrounded  by 
palm-trees.  But  between  ourselves,  one  may  say 
that  the  beautiful  goddess  was  a little  old-fash- 
ioned for  our  times.  She  and  her  mysteries  had 
had  their  day.  Besides,  if  there  should  be  any 
chagrined  soul  who  might  regret  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  island,  care  has  been  taken  to  per- 
petuate the  memory  of  it,  in  the  same  way  as 
that  of  the  cataract.  Charming  coloured  post- 
cards, taken  before  the  submerging  of  the  island 
and  the  sanctuary,  are  on  sale  in  all  the  book- 
shops along  the  quay. 

Oh!  this  quay  of  Assouan,  already  so  British 
in  its  orderliness,  its  method!  Nothing  better 
cared  for,  nothing  more  altogether  charming 
could  be  conceived.  First  of  all  there  is  the 
railway,  which,  passing  between  balustrades 
painted  a grass-green,  gives  out  its  fascinating 
noise  and  joyous  smoke.  On  one  side  is  a row 
of  hotels  and  shops,  all  European  in  character 
— hairdressers,  perfumers,  and  numerous  dark 


A Town  Promptly  Embellished  281 

rooms  for  the  use  of  the  many  amateur  photog- 
raphers, who  make  a point  of  taking  away 
with  them  photographs  of  their  travelling  com- 
panions grouped  tastefully  before  some  celebrated 
hypogeum. 

And  then  numerous  cafes,  where  the  whisky 
is  of  excellent  quality.  And,  I ought  to  add, 
in  justice  to  the  result  of  the  Entente  Cor  diale, 
you  may  see  there,  too,  aligned  in  considerable 
quantities  on  the  shelves,  the  products  of  those 
great  French  philanthropists,  to  whom  indeed 
our  generation  does  not  render  sufficient  homage 
for  all  the  good  they  have  done  to  its  stomach 
and  its  head.  The  reader  will  guess  that  I have 
named  Pernod,  Picon  and  Cusenier. 

It  may  be  indeed  that  the  honest  fellahs  and 
Nubians  of  the  neighbourhood,  so  sober  a little 
while  ago,  are  apt  to  abuse  these  tonics  a little. 
But  that  is  the  effect  of  novelty,  and  will  pass. 
And  anyhow,  amongst  us  Europeans,  there  is 
no  need  to  conceal  the  fact — for  do  we  not  all 
make  use  of  it  involuntarily? — that  alcoholism  is 
a powerful  auxiliary  in  the  propagation  of  our 
ideas,  and  that  the  dealer  in  wines  and  spirits  con- 
stitutes a valuable  vanguard  pioneer  for  our 
Western  civilisation.  Races,  insensibly  depressed 
by  the  abuse  of  our  “ appetisers,”  become  more 
supple,  more  easy  to  lead  in  the  true  path  of 
progress  and  hberty. 


282 

On  this  quay  of  Assouan,  so  carefully  levelled, 
defiles  briskly  a continual  stream  of  fair  travellers 
ravishingly  dressed  as  only  those  know  how  who 
have  made  a tour  with  Cook  & Son  (Egypt 
Ltd.).  And  along  the  Nile,  in  the  shade  of  the 
young  trees,  planted  with  the  utmost  nicety  and 
precision,  the  flower-beds  and  straight-cut  turf 
are  protected  efficaciously  by  means  of  wire-net- 
ting against  certain  acts  of  forgetfulness  to  which 
dogs,  alas,  are  only  too  much  addicted. 

Here,  too,  everything  is  ticketed,  everything 
has  its  number:  the  donkeys,  the  donkey-drivers, 
the  stations  even  where  they  are  allowed  to 
stand — “ Stand  for  six  donkeys,  stand  for  ten, 
etc.”  Some  very  handsome  camels,  fitted  with 
riding  saddles,  wait  also  in  their  respective  places 
and  a number  of  Cook  ladies,  meticulous  on  the 
])oint  of  local  colour,  even  when  it  is  merely  a 
question  of  making  some  purchases  in  the  town, 
readily  mount  for  some  moments  one  or  otlier  of 
these  “ ships  of  the  desert.” 

And  at  every  fifty  yards  a policeman,  still 
Egyptian  in  his  countenance,  but  quite  English 
in  his  bearing  and  costume,  keeps  a vigilant  eye 
on  everything — would  never  suffer,  for  example, 
that  an  eleventh  donkey  should  dare  to  take  a 
place  in  a stand  for  ten,  which  was  already  full. 

Certain  people,  inclined  to  be  critical,  might 
consider,  perhaps,  that  these  policemen  were  a 


A Town  Promptly  Embellished  283 

little  too  ready  to  chide  their  fellow-country- 
men; whereas  on  the  contrary  they  showed 
themselves  very  respectful  and  obliging  when- 
ever they  were  addressed  by  a traveller  in  a 
cork  helmet.  But  that  is  in  virtue  of  an  equit- 
able and  logical  principle,  derived  by  them  from 
the  high  places  of  the  new  administration — 
namely,  that  the  Egypt  of  to-day  belongs  far 
less  to  the  Egyptians  than  to  the  noble  foreigners 
who  have  come  to  brandish  there  the  torch  of 
civilisation. 

In  the  evening,  after  dark,  the  really  respect- 
able travellers  do  not  quit  the  brilliant  dining 
saloons  of  the  hotels,  and  the  quay  is  left  quite 
solitary  beneath  the  stars.  It  is  at  such  a time  that 
one  is  able  to  realise  how  extremely  hospitable  , 
certain  of  the  natives  are  become.  If,  in  an  hour 
of  melancholy,  you  walk  alone  on  the  bank  of 
the  Nile,  smoking  a cigarette,  you  will  not  fail  to 
be  accosted  by  one  of  these  good  people,  who, 
misunderstanding  the  cause  of  the  unrest  in  your 
soul,  offers  eagerly,  and  with  a touching  frank- 
ness, to  introduce  you  to  the  gayest  of  the  young 
ladies  of  the  country. 

In  the  other  towns,  which  still  remain  purely 
Egyptian,  the  people  would  never  practise  such 
an  excess  of  affability  and  good  manners,  which 
have  been  learnt,  beyond  all  question,  from  our 
beneficent  contact. 


28+  Egypt 

Assouan  possesses  also  its  little  Onental  bazaar 
— a little  improvised,  a little  new  perhaps;  but 
then  one,  at  least,  was  needed,  and  that  as  quickly 
as  possible,  in  order  that  nothing  might  be  want- 
ing to  the  tourists. 

The  shopkeepers  have  contrived  to  provision 
themselves  (in  the  leading  shops,  under  the 
arcades  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli)  with  as  much  tact 
as  good  taste,  and  the  Cook  ladies  have  the  in- 
nocent illusion  of  making  bargains  every  day. 
One  may  even  buy  there,  himg  up  by  the  tail, 
stuffed  with  straw  and  looking  extremely  real, 
the  last  crocodiles  of  Egypt,  which,  particularly 
at  the  end  of  the  season,  may  be  had  at  very 
advantageous  prices. 

Even  the  old  Nile  has  allowed  itself  to  be 
fretted  and  brought  up  to  date  in  the  progress  of 
evolution. 

First,  the  women,  draped  in  black  veils,  who 
come  daily  to  draw  the  precious  water,  have  for- 
saken the  fragile  amphorae  of  baked  earth,  which 
had  come  to  them  from  barbarous  times — and 
which  the  Orientalists  grossly  abused  in  their 
pictures;  and  in  their  stead  have  taken  to  old  tin 
oil-cans,  placed  at  their  disposal  by  the  kindness 
of  the  big  hotels.  But  they  carry  them  in  the 
same  easy  graceful  manner  as  erstwhile  the  dis- 
carded pottery,  and  without  losing  in  the  least 
the  gracious  tanagrine  outline. 


A Town  Promptly  Embellished  285 

And  then  there  are  the  great  tourist  boats  of 
the  Agencies,  which  are  here  in  abundance,  for 
Assouan  has  the  privilege  of  being  the  terminus 
of  the  line;  and  their  whistlings,  their  revolving 
motors,  their  electric  dynamos  maintain  from 
morning  till  night  a captivating  symphony.  It 
might  be  urged  perhaps  against  these  structures 
that  they  resemble  a little  the  washhouses  on  the 
Seine;  but  the  Agencies,  desirous  of  restoring  to 
them  a certain  local  colour,  have  given  them 
names  so  notoriously  Egyptian  that  one  is  re- 
duced to  silence.  They  are  called  Sesostris, 
Amenophis  or  Ramses  the  Great. 

And  finally  there  are  the  rowing  boats,  which 
carry  passengers  incessantly  backwards  and  for- 
wards between  the  river-banks.  So  long  as  the 
season  remains  at  its  height  they  are  bedecked 
with  a number  of  little  flags  of  red  cotton-cloth, 
or  even  of  simple  paper.  The  rowers,  moreover, 
have  been  instructed  to  sing  all  the  time  the 
native  songs  which  are  accompanied  by  a der- 
boucca  player  seated  in  the  prow.  Nay,  they 
have  even  learnt  to  utter  that  rousing,  stimulat- 
ing cry  which  Anglo-Saxons  use  to  express  their 
enthusiasm  or  their  joy:  “Hip!  hip!  hurrah!”, 
and  you  cannot  conceive  how  well  it  sounds,  com-  , 
ing  between  the  Arab  songs,  which  otherwise 
might  be  apt  to  grow  monotonous. 


286 


Egypt 

But  the  triumph  of  Assouan  is  its  desert.  It 
begins  at  once  without  transition  as  soon  as  you 
pass  the  close-cropped  turf  of  the  last  square.  A 
desert  which,  except  for  the  railroad  and  the 
telegraph  poles,  has  all  the  charm  of  the  real 
thing;  the  sand,  the  chaos  of  overthrown  stones, 
the  empty  horizons — everything,  in  short,  save 
the  immensity  and  infinite  solitude,  the  horror,  in 
a word,  which  formerly  made  it  so  little  desirable. 
It  is  a little  astonishing,  it  must  be  owned,  to 
find,  on  arriving  there,  that  the  rocks  have  been 
carefully  numbered  in  wliite  paint,  and  in  some 
cases  marked  with  a large  cross  “ which  catches 
the  eye  from  a greater  distance  still  ” (sic) . But 
I agree  that  the  effect  of  the  whole  has  lost 
nothing. 

In  the  morning  before  the  sun  gets  too  hot, 
between  breakfast  and  luncheon  to  be  precise, 

I 4 

all  the  good  ladies  in  cork  helmets  and  blue 
spectacles  (dark-coloured  spectacles  are  recom- 
mended on  account  of  the  glare)  spread  them- 
selves over  these  solitudes,  domesticated  as  it 
were  to  their  use,  with  as  much  security  as  in 
Trafalgar  Square  or  Kensington  Gardens.  Not 
seldom  even  you  may  see  one  of  them  making 
her  way  alone,  book  in  hand,  towards  one  of  the 
picturesque  rocks — No.  363,  for  example,  or  No. 
364,  if  you  like  it  better — which  seems  to  be  mak- 
ing signs  to  her  with  its  white  ticket,  in  a manner 


A Town  Promptly  Embellished  287 

which,  to  the  uninitiated  observer,  might  seem 
even  a little  improper. 

But  what  a sense  of  safety  families  may  feel 
here,  to  be  sure!  In  spite  of  the  huge  numbers, 
which  at  first  sight  look  a little  equivocal,  noth- 
ing in  the  least  degree  reprehensible  can  happen 
among  these  granites;  which  are,  moreover,  in 
a single  piece,  without  the  least  crack  or  hole 
into  which  the  straggler  could  contrive  to  crawl. 
No.  The  figures  and  the  crosses  denote  simply 
blocks  of  stones,  covered  with  hieroglyphics,  and 
correspond  to  a chaste  catalogue  where  each 
Pharaonic  inscription  may  be  found  translated 
in  the  most  becoming  language. 

This  ingenious  ticketing  of  the  stones  of  the 
desert  is  due  to  the  initiative  of  an  English 
Egyptologist. 


CHAPTER  XX 


THE  PASSING  OF  PHIL^E 

Leaving  Assouan — as  soon  as  we  have  passed 
the  last  house — we  come  at  once  upon  the  desert. 
And  now  the  night  is  falling,  a cold  February 
night,  under  a strange,  copper-coloured  sky. 

Incontestably  it  is  the  desert,  with  its  chaos 
of  granite  and  sand,  its  warm  tones  and  reddish 
colour.  But  there  are  telegraph  poles  and  the 
lines  of  a railroad,  which  traverse  it  in  company, 
and  disappear  in  the  empty  horizon.  And  then 
too  how  paradoxical  and  ridiculous  it  seems  to  be 
travelling  here  on  full  security  and  in  a carriage ! 
(The  most  commonplace  of  hackney-carriages, 
which  I hired  by  the  hour  on  the  quay  of  As- 
souan.) A desert  indeed  which  preserves  still  its 
aspects  of  reality,  but  has  become  domesticated 
and  tamed  for  the  use  of  the  tourists  and  the  ladies. 

First,  immense  cemeteries  surrounded  by  sand 
at  the  beginning  of  these  quasi-solitudes.  Such 
old  cemeteries  of  every  epoch  of  history.  The 
thousand  little  cupolas  of  saints  of  Islam  are 
crumbling  side  by  side  with  the  Christian  obelisks 
of  the  first  centuries ; and,  underneath,  the  Phara- 
onic hypogea.  In  the  twilight,  all  these  ruins  of 
291 


292  Egypt 

the  dead,  all  the  scattered  blocks  of  granite  are 
mingled  in  mournful  groupings,  outlined  in  fan- 
tastic silhouette  against  the  pale  copper  of  the 
sky;  broken  arches,  tilted  domes,  and  rocks  that 
rise  up  like  tall  phantoms. 

Farther  on,  when  we  have  left  behind  this 
region  of  tombs,  the  granites  alone  litter  the 
expanse  of  sand,  granites  to  which  the  usury  of 
centuries  has  given  the  form  of  huge  round 
beasts.  In  places  they  have  been  thrown  one 
upon  the  other  and  make  great  heaps  of  monsters. 
Elsewhere  they  lie  alone  among  the  sands,  as  if 
lost  in  the  midst  of  the  infinitude  of  some  dead 
sea-shore.  The  rails  and  the  telegraph  poles  have 
disappeared;  by  the  magic  of  the  twilight  every- 
thing is  become  grand  again,  beneath  one  of 
those  evening  skies  of  Egypt  which,  in  winter, 
resemble  cold  cupolas  of  metal.  And  now  it  is 
that  you  feel  yourself  verily  on  the  threshold  of 
the  profound  desolations  of  Arabia,  from  which 
no  barrier,  after  all,  separates  you.  Were  it  not 
for  the  lack  of  verisimilitude  in  the  carriage 
that  has  brought  us  hither,  we  should  be  able 
now  to  take  this  desert  quite  seriously — for  in 
fact  it  has  no  limits. 

After  travelling  for  about  three  quarters  of  an 
hour,  we  see  in  the  distance  a number  of  lights, 
which  have  already  been  kindled  in  the  growing 
darkness.  They  seem  too  bright  to  be  those  of 


The  Passing  of  Philse  293 

an  Arab  encampment.  And  our  driver  turning 
round  and  pointing  to  them  says:  “ Chelal!  ” 

Chelal — that  is  the  name  of  the  Arab  village, 
on  the  riverside,  where  you  take  the  boat  for 
Philse.  To  our  disgust  the  place  is  lighted  by 
electricity.  It  consists  of  a station,  a factoiy 
with  a long  smoking  chimney,  and  a dozen  or  so 
suspicious-looking  taverns,  reeking  of  alcohol, 
without  which,  it  would  seem,  our  European 
civilisation  could  not  implant  itself  in  a new 
country. 

And  here  we  embark  for  Philse.  A number 
of  boats  are  ready:  for  the  tourists  allured  hy 
many  advertisements  flock  hither  every  winter 
in  docile  herds.  All  the  boats,  without  a single 
exception,  are  profusely  decorated  with  little 
English  flags,  as  if  for  some  regatta  on  the 
Thames.  There  is  no  escape  therefore  from  this 
beflagging  of  a foreign  holiday — and  we  set  out 
with  a homesick  song  of  Nubia,  which  the  boat- 
men sing  to  the  cadence  of  the  oars. 

The  copper-coloured  ^ heaven  remains  so  im- 
pregnated with  cold  light  that  we  still  see  clearly. 
We  are  amid  magnificent  tragic  scenery  on  a 
lake  surroimded  by  a kind  of  fearful  amphi- 
theatre outlined  on  all  sides  by  the  mountains  of 
the  desert.  It  was  at  the  bottom  of  this  granite 
circus  that  the  Nile  used  to  flow,  forming  fresh 
islets,  on  which  the  eternal  verdure  of  the  palm- 


294  Egypt 

trees  contrasted  with  the  high  desolate  mountains 
that  surroimded  it  hke  a wall.  To-day,  on  ac- 
count of  the  barrage  established  by  the  English, 
the  water  has  steadily  risen,  like  a tide  that  will 
never  recede;  and  this  lake,  almost  a little  sea, 
replaces  the  meanderings  of  the  river  and  has 
succeeded  in  submerging  the  sacred  islets.  The 
sanctuary  of  Isis — which  was  enthroned  for  thou- 
sands of  years  on  the  summit  of  a hill,  crowded 
with  temples  and  colonnades  and  statues — still 
half  emerges ; but  it  is  alone  and  will  soon  go  the 
way  of  the  others.  There  it  is,  beyond,  like  a 
great  rock,  at  this  hour  in  which  the  night  begins 
to  obscure  everything. 

Nowhere  but  in  Upper  Egypt  have  the  winter 
nights  these  transparencies  of  absolute  emptiness 
nor  these  sinister  colourings.  As  the  light  grad- 
ually fails,  the  sky  passes  from  copper  to 
bronze,  but  remains  always  metallic.  The  zenith 
becomes  brownish  like  a brazen  shield,  while  the 
setting  sun  alone  retains  its  yellow  colour,  grow- 
ing slowly  paler  till  it  is  almost  of  the  whiteness 
of  latten ; and,  above,  the  mountains  of  the  desert 
edge  their  sharp  outlines  with  a tint  of  burnt 
sienna.  To-night  a freezing  wind  blows  fiercely 
in  our  faces.  To  the  continual  chant  of  the 
rowers  we  pass  slowly  over  the  artificial  lake, 
which  is  upheld  as  it  were  in  the  air  by  the 
English  masonry,  invisible  now  in  the  distance. 


The  Passing  of  Philae  295 

but  divined  nevertheless  and  revolting.  A sac- 
rilegious lake  one  might  call  it,  since  it  hides 
beneath  its  troubled  waters  ruins  beyond  all 
price;  temples  of  the  gods  of  Egypt,  churches 
of  the  first  centuries  of  Christianity,  obelisks, 
inscriptions  and  emblems.  It  is  over  these  things 
that  we  now  pass,  while  the  spray  splashes  in 
our  faces,  and  the  foam  of  a thousand  angry  lit- 
tle billows. 

We  draw  near  to  what  was  once  the  holy  isle. 
In  places  dying  palm-trees,  whose  long  trunks  are 
to-day  under  water,  still  show  their  moistened 
plumes  and  give  an  appearance  of  inundation, 
almost  of  cataclysm. 

Before  coming  to  the  sanctuary  of  Isis,  we 
touch  at  the  kiosk  of  Philje,  which  has  been 
reproduced  in  the  pictures  of  every  age,  and  is 
as  celebrated  even  as  the  Sphinx  and  the  pyra- 
mids. It  used  to  stand  on  a pedestal  of  high 
rocks,  and  around  it  the  date-trees  swayed  their 
bouquets  of  aerial  palms.  To-day  it  has  no 
longer  a base;  its  columns  rise  separately  from 
this  kind  of  suspended  lake.  It  looks  as  if  it 
had  been  constructed  in  the  water  for  the  purpose 
of  some  royal  naumachy.  We  enter  with  our 
boat  — a strange  port  indeed,  in  its  ancient 
grandeur;  a port  of  a nameless  melancholy,  par- 
ticularly at  this  yellow  hour  of  the  closing  twi- 
light, and  under  these  icy  winds  that  come  to 


296  Egypt 

us  mercilessly  from  the  neighbouring  deserts. 
And  yet  how  adorable  it  is,  this  kiosk  of  Philse, 
in  this  the  abandonment  that  precedes  its  down- 
fall! Its  columns  placed,  as  it  were,  upon  some- 
thing unstable,  become  thereby  more  slender, 
seem  to  raise  higher  still  the  stone  foliage  of 
their  capitals.  A veritable  kiosk  of  dreamland 
now,  which  one  feels  is  about  to  disappear  for 
ever  under  these  waters  which  will  subside  no 
more ! 

And  now,  for  another  few  moments,  it  grows 
quite  light  again,  and  tints  of  a warmer  copper 
reappear  in  the  sky.  Often  in  Egypt  when  the 
sun  has  set  and  you  think  the  light  is  gone,  this 
furtive  recoloration  of  the  air  comes  thus  to  sur- 
prise you,  before  the  darkness  finally  descends. 
The  reddish  tints  seem  to  return  to  the  slender 
shafts  that  surroimd  us,  and  also,  beyond,  to  the 
temple  of  the  goddess,  standing  there  like  a sheer 
rock  in  the  middle  of  this  little  sea,  which  the 
wind  covers  with  foam. 

On  leaving  the  kiosk  our  boat — on  this  deep 
usurping  water,  among  the  submerged  palm-trees 
— makes  a detour  in  order  to  lead  us  to  the  temple 
by  the  road  which  the  pilgrims  of  olden  times 
used  to  travel  on  foot — by  that  way  which,  a little 
while  ago,  was  still  magnificent,  bordered  with 
colonnades  and  statues.  But  now  the  road  is 
entirely  submerged,  and  will  never  be  seen  again. 


The  Passing  of  Philse  297 

Between  its  double  row  of  columns  the  water  lifts 
us  to  the  height  of  the  capitals,  which  alone 
emerge  and  which  we  could  touch  with  our  hands. 
It  seems  like  some  journey  of  the  end  of  time,  in 
a kind  of  deserted  Venice,  which  is  about  to  topple 
over,  to  sink  and  be  forgotten. 

We  arrive  at  the  temple.  Above  our  heads 
rise  the  enormous  pylons,  ornamented  with  fig- 
ures in  bas-relief:  an  Isis  who  stretches  out  her 
arms  as  if  she  were  making  signs  to  us,  and  nu- 
merous other  divinities  gesticulating  mysteriously. 
The  door  which  opens  in  the  thickness  of  these 
walls  is  low,  besides  being  half  flooded,  and 
gives  on  to  depths  already  in  darkness.  We 
row  on  and  enter  the  sanctuary,  and  as  soon  as 
our  boat  has  crossed  the  sacred  threshold  the 
boatmen  stop  their  song  and  suddenly  give  voice 
to  the  new  cry  that  has  been  taught  them  for  the 
benefit  of  the  tourists:  “Hip!  hip!  hip!  hur- 
rah ! ” Coming  at  this  moment,  when,  with 
heart  oppressed  by  all  the  utilitarian  vandalism 
that  surrounds  us,  we  were  entering  the  sanc- 
tuary, what  an  effect  of  gross  and  imbecile  prof- 
anation this  bellowing  of  English  joy  produces! 
The  boatmen  know,  moreover,  that  they  have 
been  displaced,  that  their  day  has  gone  for  ever; 
perhaps  even,  in  the  depths  of  their  Nubian  souls, 
they  understand  us,  for  all  that  we  have  imposed 
silence  on  them.  The  darkness  increases  within. 


298 

although  the  place  is  open  to  the  sky,  and  the 
icy  wind  blows  more  mournfully  than  it  did  out- 
side. A penetrating  humidity — a humidity  al- 
together imknown  in  this  country  before  the 
inundation — chills  us  to  the  bone.  We  are  now 
in  that  part  of  the  temple  which  was  left  un- 
covered, the  part  where  the  faithful  used  to  kneel. 
The  sonority  of  the  granites  round  about  ex- 
aggerates the  noise  of  the  oars  on  the  enclosed 
water,  and  there  is  something  confusing  in  the 
thought  that  we  are  rowing  and  floating  between 
the  walls  where  formerly,  and  for  centimes,  men 
were  used  to  prostrate  themselves  with  their  fore- 
heads on  the  stones. 

And  now  it  is  quite  dark;  the  hour  grows 
late.  We  have  to  bring  the  boat  close  to  the 
walls  to  distinguish  the  hieroglyphs  and  rigid 
gods  which  are  engraved  there  as  finely  as  by  the 
burin.  These  walls,  washed  for  nearly  four  years 
by  the  inundation,  have  already  taken  on  at  the 
base  that  sad  blackish  colour  which  may  be  seen 
on  the  old  Venetian  palaces. 

Halt  and  silence.  It  is  dark  and  cold.  The 
oars  no  longer  move,  and  we  hear  only  the 
sighing  of  the  wind  and  the  lapping  of  the  water 
against  the  columns  and  the  bas-rehefs — and  then 
suddenly  there  comes  the  noise  of  a heavy  body 
falling,  followed  by  endless  eddies.  A great 
carved  stone  has  plunged,  at  its  due  hour,  to 


The  Passing  of  Philae  299 

rejoin  in  the  black  chaos  below  its  fellows  that 
have  already  disappeared,  to  rejoin  the  sub- 
merged temples  and  old  Coptic  churches,  and  the 
town  of  the  first  Christian  centuries — all  that  was 
once  the  Isle  of  Philas,  the  “ pearl  of  Egypt,”  one 
of  the  marvels  of  the  world. 

The  darkness  is  now  extreme  and  we  can  see 
no  longer.  Let  us  go  and  shelter,  no  matter 
where,  to  await  the  moon.  At  the  end  of  this 
uncovered  hall  there  opens  a door  which  gives  on 
to  deep  night.  It  is  the  holy  of  holies,  heavily 
roofed  with  granite,  the  highest  part  of  the 
temple,  the  only  part  which  the  waters  have  not 
yet  reached,  and  there  we  are  able  to  put  foot  to 
earth.  Our  footsteps  resound  noisily  on  the  large 
resonant  fiags,  and  the  owls  take  to  flight.  Pro- 
found darkness;  the  wind  and  the  dampness  freeze 
us.  Three  hours  to  go  before  the  rising  of  the 
moon;  to  wait  in  this  place  would  be  our  death. 
Rather  let  us  return  to  Chelal,  and  shelter  our- 
selves in  any  lodging  that  offers,  however 
wretched  it  may  be. 

• •••••• 

A tavern  of  the  horrible  village  in  the  light 
of  an  electric  lamp.  It  reeks  of  absinthe,  this 
desert  tavern,  in  which  we  warm  ourselves  at  a 
little  smoking  fire.  It  has  been  hastily  built  of 
old  tin  boxes,  of  tbe  debris  of  whisky  cases,  and 
by  way  of  mural  decoration  the  landlord,  an 


300  Egypt 

ignorant  ISIaltese,  has  pasted  eveiywhere  pictures 
cut  from  our  European  pornographic  news- 
papers. During  our  hours  of  waiting,  Nubians 
and  i^i’abians  follow  one  another  hither,  asking 
for  drink,  and  are  supplied  with  brimming  glass- 
fuls of  our  alcoholic  beverages.  They  are  the 
workers  in  the  new  factories  who  were  formerly 
healthy  beings,  living  in  the  open  air.  But  now 
their  faces  are  stained  with  coal  dust,  and  their 
haggard  eyes  look  unhappy  and  ill. 

• •••••• 

The  rising  of  the  moon  is  fortunately  at  hand. 
Once  more  in  our  boat  we  make  our  way  slowly 
towards  the  sad  rock  which  to-day  is  Philse. 
The  wind  has  fallen  with  the  night,  as  happens 
almost  invariably  in  this  country  in  winter,  and 
the  lake  is  calm.  To  the  mournful  yellow  sky 
has  succeeded  one  that  is  blue-black,  infinitely 
distant,  where  the  stars  of  Egypt  scintillate  in 
myriads. 

A great  glimmering  light  shows  now  in  the 
east  and  at  length  the  full  moon  rises,  not  blood- 
coloured  as  in  our  climates  but  straightway  very 
luminous,  and  surrounded  by  an  aureole  of  a kind 
of  mist,  caused  by  the  eternal  dust  of  the  sands. 
And  when  we  return  to  the  baseless  kiosk — lulled 
always  by  the  Nubian  song  of  the  boatmen 
— a great  disc  is  already  illuminating  everything 
with  a gentle  splendour.  As  our  little  boat  winds 


The  Passing  of  Philae  301 

in  and  out,  we  see  the  great  ruddy  disc  pass- 
ing and  repassing  between  the  high  columns,  so 
striking  in  their  archaism,  whose  images  are 
repeated  in  the  water,  that  is  now  grown  calm — 
more  than  ever  a kiosk  of  dreamland,  a kiosk  of 
old-world  magic. 

In  returning  to  the  temple  of  the  goddess,  we 
follow  for  a second  time  the  submerged  road  be- 
tween the  capitals  and  friezes  of  the  colonnade 
which  emerge  like  a row  of  little  reefs. 

In  the  uncovered  hall  which  forms  the  entrance 
to  the  temple,  it  is  still  dark  between  the  sovereign 
granites.  Let  us  moor  our  boat  against  one  of 
the  walls  and  await  the  good  pleasure  of  the 
moon.  As  soon  as  she  shall  have  risen  high 
enough  to  cast  her  light  here,  we  shall  see 
clearly. 

It  begins  by  a rosy  glimmer  on  the  summit 
of  the  pylons;  and  then  takes  the  form  of  a 
luminous  triangle,  very  clearly  defined,  which 
grows  gradually  larger  on  the  immense  wall. 
Little  by  little  it  descends  towards  the  base  of 
the  temple,  revealing  to  us  by  degrees  the  in- 
timidating presence  of  the  bas-reliefs,  the  gods, 
goddesses  and  hieroglyphs,  and  the  assemblies 
of  people  who  make  signs  among  themselves. 
We  are  no  longer  ‘alone — a whole  world  of 
phantoms  has  been  evoked  around  us  by  the 
moon,  some  little,  some  very  large.  They  had 


302  Egypt 

been  hiding  there  in  the  shadow  and  now  sud- 
denly they  recommence  their  mute  conversa- 
tions, without  breaking  the  profound  silence, 
using  only  their  expressive  hands  and  raised 
fingers.  And  now  also  the  colossal  Isis  begins 
to  appear — the  one  carved  on  the  left  of  the 
portico  by  which  you  enter;  first,  her  refined 
head  with  its  bird’s  helmet,  sm’mounted  by  a 
solar  disc;  then,  as  the  light  continues  to 
descend,  her  neck  and  shoulders,  and  her  arm, 
raised  to  make  who  knows  what  mysterious, 
indicating  sign;  and  finally  the  slim  nudity  of 
her  torso,  and  her  hips  close  bound  in  a sheath. 
Behold  her  now,  the  goddess,  come  completely 
out  of  the  shadow.  . . . But  she  seems  surprised 
and  disturbed  at  seeing  at  her  feet,  instead  of  the 
stones  she  had  known  for  two  thousand  years,  her 
own  likeness,  a reflection  of  herself,  that  stretches 
away,  reversed  in  the  mirror  of  the  water.  . . . 

And  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  deep  noc- 
turnal calm  of  this  temple,  isolated  here  in  the 
lake,  comes  again  the  sound  of  a kind  of  mourn- 
ful booming,  of  things  that  topple,  precious 
stones  that  become  detached  and  fall — and  then, 
on  the  surface  of  the  lake,  a thousand  concentric 
circles  form,  chase  one  another  and  disappear, 
ruffling  indefinitely  this  mirror  embanked  between 
the  terrible  granites,  in  which  Isis  regards  herself 
sorrowfully. 


The  Passing  of  Philae  303 

Postscript. — The  submerging  of  Philae,  as  we 
know,  has  increased  by  no  less  than  seventy-five 
millions  of  pounds  the  annual  yield  of  the  sur- 
rounding land.  Encouraged  by  this  success,  the 
English  propose  next  year  to  raise  the  barrage 
of  the  Nile  another  twenty  feet.  As  a conse- 
quence this  sanctuary  of  Isis  will  be  completely 
submerged,  the  greater  part  of  the  ancient 
temples  of  Nubia  will  be  under  water,  and  fever 
will  infect  the  country.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  cultivation  of  cotton  will  be  enormously 
facilitated.  . . . 


Index 


Abobtions,  Egyptian  belief  re- 
specting, 49 
Abydos 

— antiquity  of,  135 

■ — country  on  the  way  to,  131-132 
■ — necropoles  of 

extent  of,  140 

fascination  of,  for  the  Egyp- 
tians, 134 
site  of,  133 

— temples  to  Osiris  at,  135-136, 
138-139,  141-144 

Alexander  the  Great,  185 
Amasis,  King,  85 
Amen,  God 

— Hypostyle  Hall  dedicated  to, 
at  Thebes,  195,  207,  213,  215- 
217,  223-224,  264 

— palaces  of,  at  Thebes,  211 

— ritual  procession  of,  in  temple 
at  Luxor,  185-186 

— “ Sovereign  Master  of  Life  and 
Eternity,”  196 

Amenemhat,  King,  10 
Amenophis  II.,  183,  237 

— “Double”  of,  250-252 

— mummy  of,  255-256 

— tomb  of,  245-248,  252-257 

frescoes  in,  247-248 

Amenophis  HI.,  265  note 
Anubis  (jackal-headed  god),  143, 

^7 

Apis,  an  emanation  from  the  All- 
Powerful,  196 

— coffins  of,  85-86 

— tombs  of,  77,  84-87 
Assouan,  277-287 

— bazaar  at,  284 

— dam  at,  279,  280,  294,  303 

— desert  at,  286-287,  291-292 

— quay  of,  280-283 

— tourist  boats  at,  285 

Bakkue  (Mameluke  Sultan), 
tomb  of,  101 

305 


Basilica  of  St  Sergius 

— antiquity  of,  114 

— crypt  of,  105-107 

— entrance  to,  111-112 

— interior  of,  112-113 

— location  of,  108,  110 
Bas-relief  of  Emp>eror  Nero,  173 
Bas-reliefs  in  temples  at  Abydos, 

135-136,  138-139,  142-144 

— grace  and  purity  of,  143 

— lack  of  persptective  and  fore- 
shortening in,  143-144 

— marvellous  preservation  of,  139, 
142-144 

Bas-reliefs  in  Temple  of  Hathor, 
168,  170,  172-173 

— decadence  of,  170 
Bas-reliefs  in  Temple  of  Isis,  301 

— in  temple  at  Luxor,  ritual 
procession  of  God  Amen,  185- 
186 

— at  Thebes,  218 

— in  tomb  of  Amenophis  II.,  256 
Beasts  and  plants,  their  persistence 

of  tyjje,  188 

Beasts,  sacred,  mummies  of,  48 
Bull,  Apis.  See  Apis 

Cairo 

— cemetery,  modern,  at,  by  night, 
95-98 

— citadel,  view  of,  from,  21-23 

— “City  of  Mosques,”  the,  31 

— new  town,  the,  25-26 

— old  town,  the,  23-25 
Caliphs,  Fatimee,  61 
Cambyses,  King,  86 

— soldiers  of,  and  destruction  of 
Thebes,  230 

Cataract  at  Assouan,  277,  279 
Cataract  Hotel,  Assouan,  279 
Cat-headed  Goddess  (The  Ogress), 
268,  272-273 

— Temple  of,  271-273 


3o6  Index 


Cat-headed  goddesses,  261,  266- 
268 

Chah  Zade,  19 
Chelal,  293 

— tavern  at,  299-300 
Cheops,  Pyramid  of,  7-9 
Christ,  image  of,  in  temple  at 

Luxor,  184 

Christianity  in  Egypt,  its  rapid 
growth  and  persistence,  107-108 
Christians  and  the  destruction  of 
Thebes,  197 

Citadel,  the,  at  Cairo,  17,  18 
Climate  of  Egypt,  change  in,  5,  6 
Colossi 

— Luxor,  at,  187-190 

— Memnon,  of,  240,  245 

— Thebes,  at,  262-265 
Columns 

— Abydos,  at,  142 

— Luxor,  at,  183-184,  186-187, 
239 

— mosques,  of  the,  36 

— “ plant-column,”  142 

— Thebes,  at,  216-217,  225-226 
Coptic  Mass  in  Basilica  of  St 

^rgius,  106,  113-114 

— Church.  See  Basilica  of  St 
Sergius 

Copts 

— precedence  in  Christianity,  107- 
108 

— simplicity  of,  112,  115 

— women,  dress  of.  111 

Crypt  of  Basilica  of  St  Sergius, 
105-107 

— antiquity  of,  107 

Dahabiya,  152-154,  158-159,  177, 
179,  181,  238 

Dam,  Nile,  at  Assouan,  279,  280, 
294,  303 

Dashur,  Pyramids  of,  153 
Death,  Egyptian  conception  of, 
248-250 
Desert,  the 

— Assouan,  at,  286-287,  291-292 

— characteristic  of,  94 

— proximity  of,  to  Cairo,  93,  94 

— Libyan,  11,  132 

— Memphite,  78-82 
at  night,  88-89 

— of  the  Sphinx,  at  night,  3-13 
Denderah,  172 

Divinities,  Egyptian.  See  Bas- 
reliefs 


“ Double”  of  Amenophis  II.,  250- 
252 

— of  the  mummy,  Egyptian  belief 
respecting,  249-250 

Easter  Mass  in  Basilica  of  St 
Sergius,  106,  113-114 
Egypt,  climate,  change  in,  5,  6 

— cost  of  upkeep,  25 

— spring  in,  109-110 

Egypt,  Pharaonic,  and  idea  of  di- 
\'ine  unity,  196 

Egjq)tian  peasants  of  to-day.  See 
Fellahs 

— villages,  neutral  colour  of,  124- 
125,  156-157 

El  Azhar 

— (Moslem  University),  61-73 

— courtyard  of,  62-64 

— defjendencies  of,  66-67 

— duration  of  studies  at,  70  note 

— mosque  of,  62-63,  69-72 

— projected  reform  of,  73 

— students  at;  their  diversity  of 
type,  68 

Embalmers 

— suburb  of,  at  Thebes,  238-239 

— success  of,  doubtful,  51 

Fatimee  Caliphs,  61 
Fatimites,  67,  73 

Fellah  babies;  their  dirtiness,  122, 

125 

Fellahs 

— at  the  Shaduf,  119-121 

— their  passivity  and  endurance, 

123 

— their  eagerness  to  possess  land, 

124 

— their  refinement  and  courtesy, 
125-126 

— their  degradation,  126 

— proposals  for  their  awakening, 

126 

— and  the  exhumation  of  Thebes, 
227-229 

Fellah  women;  their  grace,  121, 
122,  284 

— their  strength,  123 
“Forms,”  in  Mu.seum  at  Cairo, 

Arab  superstition  respecting,  46 

Gardens  of  the  Mosque,  33-34 
Gizeh,  Pyramids  of,  4,  12,  23,  153 
God  Amen.  See  Amen 


Index 


Goddess  of  Love  and  Joy,  Temple 
of,  167-173 

— Hall  of  Mystery  in,  169 

— preservation  of,  168 
Goddess  of  War.  See  Sekhet 
Goddess  of  Lust.  See  Sekhet 

Hades,  Book  of,  248 
Hadith,  verses  from,  61,  62,  65,  67, 
72 

Hathor,  Temple  of,  167-173 

— bas-relief  of  Nero  in,  173 

— bas-reliefs  in,  168-170,  172-173 
Horus  (falcon-headed  god),  143, 

170 

Hypostyle  Hall  at  Thebes,  195, 
207,  213,  215-217,  223-224, 
264 

Iconostasis,  112-113 
Imams,  34,  40 

Irrigation,  effect  of,  on  climate, 
5,  6 

Isis,  143,  170,  280 

— colossal  figure  of,  at  Phil®,  302 

— Temple  of,  at  Phil®,  297-299, 
301-302 

Islam,  popular  misconception  re- 
specting, 72 

Kiosk  of  Phil^,  295-296,  301 
Kiosks,  mortuary,  attached  to 
mosques,  36-38 

Koran,  its  rh)rthmic  quality,  71 

Leqrain,  M.,  and  the  maintenance 
and  restoration  of  Thebes,  228 
note 

Libyan  Desert,  the,  11,  132 
Life  after  death,  Egyptian  concep- 
tion of,  248-250 

Lioness-headed  goddesses.  See 
Cat-headed  goddesses 
Luxor 

— quay  of,  181-183 

— scene  on  arrival  at,  180,  181 

— Temple  of 

Chapel  of  Alexander  the 

Great  in,  185 

Christian  cathedral  in,  185 

colossi  in,  187-189 

columns  of,  183,  184,  186- 

187,  239 

midday  in,  186 

statues  of  Ramses  II.  in,  189- 

190 


307 

Luxor,  Winter  Palace  at,  180 
239 

MLakehi,  Queen,  mummy  of,  in 
museum  at  Cairo,  50,  58 

road  of,  at  Thebes,  261 

Mameluke  Sultans,  tombs  of,  23, 
98-101 

Mariette,  M.,  the  Egyptologist,  82, 
86  note 

Mass  in  Basilica  of  St  Sergius,  106, 
113-114 

Mausoleums  attached  to  the 
mosques,  36-38 

Mehemet  Ali,  catafalque  of,  20 

— citadel  of,  17-18 

— Mosque  of,  17-21 

— Palace  of,  17,  21 
Mehmet  Fatih,  19 
Memnon,  colossi  of,  240,  245 
Memphis,  Necropolis  of,  77-89 

— Pyramids  of,  23,  78,  80,  89 
Memphite  Desert,  78-82 

at  night,  88-89 

Mihrab,  34  and  note,  35,  66 
Mokattam,  the,  17 
Moonrise  at  Phil®,  300-301 

— at  Thebes,  217-219 
Mosaic  work  in  mosques,  35 
Moslem  iconoclasts  and  destruc- 
tion of  Thebes,  197 

— UniversiW.  See  El  Azhar 
Mosque  of  Mehemet  Ali,  17-21 
Mosques  of  Cairo,  compared  with 

those  of  Morocco,  Persia  and 
T\irkey,  38 

— gardens  of,  33,  34 

— peacefulness  and  quiet  in,  32,  33 

— sanctuaries  of,  35,  36 

— work  of  restoration,  39 
Mummied  viands  in  tombs,  250 
Mummies  in  tomb  of  Amenophis 

II.,  252-254 

— of  ancestors,  Egyptian  pre- 
occupation as  to  safe  hiding  of, 
52 

— .suburb  of  preparers  of,  at 
Thebes,  238-239 

— unswathed,  in  museum  at 
Cairo,  51-57 

Museum  of  Egyptian  Antiquities  at 
Cairo,  43-58 

— precautions  against  fire  in,  45, 
49 

Mustapha  Kamel  Pacha,  65 
Mushrabiyas,  24,  33,  93,  110 


3o8  Index 


Mut,  Goddess,  Temple  of,  266  note 
“Mystery,  Hall  of,”  in  Temple  of 
Goddess  of  Love  and  Joy,  169 

Necropoles,  Egyptian,  sites  chos- 
en for,  140,  243 

— of  Abydos,  133,  134,  135,  140 
Necropolis  of  Memphis,  78-89 
Nero,  Emperor,  bas-relief  of,  173 
Nile,  ascent  of,  153-160 

— exploitation  of,  152 

— history  of,  149-152 

— profanation  of,  156-157,  160 

— scenes  on  banks,  155-159 

— villages  on  banks,  156-157 
Nile  Vmley,  the 

— fertility  of,  150 

— irrigation  of,  5,  6 
Nsitanebashru,  Queen,  mummy  of, 

55-58 

Obelisks,  at  Luxor,  187 

— at  Thebes,  178,  213-214 
Ogress,  the,  268,  272-273 

Temple  of,  271-273 

“Old  Cairo,”  108,  109,  110 
Orientals;  their  modernity  super- 
ficial, 66 

Osiris  and  Egyptian  conception  of 
death,  248-250 

— in  bas-relief  at  Abydos,  143 

— head  of,  134 

— lake  of,  210 

— Temple  of  Ramses  II.  to,  138- 
139 

— Temple  of  Seti  I.  to,  135,  136, 
141-144 

Ospreys  at  night  in  Thebes,  213 
Owls  at  night  in  Thebes,  213 

Palaces  of  Amen,  avenue  of,  at 
Thebes,  211 

Persian  soldiers  and  the  destruc- 
tion of  Thebes,  230 

— and  the  tombs  of  the  Apis,  86 
Philae,  colossal  figure  of  Isis  at, 

302 

— embarkation  for,  293 

— inundation  of,  280,  294-298 

— Kiosk  of,  295-296,  301 

— moonrise  at,  300-301 

— “ Pearl  of  Egypt,”  the,  299 

— Sanctuary  of  Isis  at,  280,  294, 
297-299,  301,  302 

— submerged  ruins  at,  295 


Plough  used  by  fellahs,  antiquity 
of,  124 

Preparers  of  mummies,  suburb  of, 
at  Thebes,  238,  239 

— success  of,  doubtful,  51 
Prophet,  words  of.  See  Hadith 
Pylons,  193,  201,  208,  211,  261-263 
Pyramid  of  Cheops,  7-9 

— Sakkarah,  153 
Pyramids  of  Dashur,  153 

— of  Gizeh,  4,  12,  23,  153 

— of  Memphis,  23,  78,  80,  89 

Ramses,  Colonnade  of,  at  Thebes, 
230 

Ramses  II.  (Sesostris),  likeness  of, 
as  a child,  144 

— mummy  of,  at  Cairo,  51,  52-54 

— statues  of,  at  Luxor,  189-190 

— Temple  of,  at  Abydos,  138,  139 

— tomb  of,  at  Thebira,  244 
Ramses  HI.,  mummy  of,  at  Cairo. 

51 

Ramses  IV.,  mummy  of,  at  Cairo, 
51 

— tomb  of,  at  Thebes,  244 
Ramses  IX.,  tomb  of,  at  Thebes, 

244 

Romans,  remains  of  colonial  towns 
of,  166 

— and  the  Temple  of  Hathor,  169- 
170,  173 

— and  the  restoration  of  Thebes, 
224 

St  Sergius,  Basilica  of,  108,  111- 
112,  113-114 

— crypt  of,  105-107 
Sakkarah,  Pyramid  of,  153 
Sanctuaries  of  the  mosques 

— columns  in,  36 

— decoration  of,  35 

— mihrab  in,  34  and  note,  35 
Sanctuaries  of  Osiris  at  Abydos, 

131,  135-144 

Screech-owls  at  night  in  Thebes, 
213 

Sekhet,  Goddess,  266,  268, 272-273 

— Temple  of,  271,  273 
Sesostris.  See  Ramses  II. 

Seti  I.,  likeness  of,  144 

— mummy  of,  at  Cairo,  51,  55 

— and  the  Temple  of  Amen  at 
Thebes,  196 

— temple  of,  to  Osiris,  135-136, 
141-144 


Index 


Set!  I.,  tomb  of,  244 

Seti  II.,  mummy  of,  at  Cairo,  51 

Setnakht,  King,  251 

Shaduf,  description  of,  119,  120 

— song  of,  119 

Soul,  me,  Egyptian  belief  respect- 
ing, 248-249 
Sphinx,  the 

— appearance  of,  9,  10 

— at  night,  3,  4 

— beauty  of,  11 

— identity  of,  10 

— “ Little  Desert  of,”  79,  80 

— secret  of,  12,  13 
Spring  in  Egypt,  109,  1 10 
Strabo;  his  description  of  Temple 

of  King  Seti  at  Abydos,  141 
Summer  solstice,  evening  of,  at 
Thebes,  226-227 
Sun  god,  the,  10 

Temple 

— goddess  of  Love  and  Joy,  of, 
167-173 

— Hathor,  of,  167-173 

— Isis,  of,  297-299,  301-302 

— Luxor,  at,  183-190 

— Mut,  Goddess,  of,  266  rwte 

— Ogress,  the,  of,  271-273 

— Osiris,  of,  135-136,  138-139, 
141-144 

— Ramses  II.,  of,  at  Abydos,  138- 
139 

— Seti  I.,  of,  at  Abydos,  135,  136, 
141-144 

— Thebes,  at,  buried  temples,  228- 
229 

— Hypostyle  Hall,  the,  195,  207, 
213,  215-217,  223-224,  264 

Tewfik,  Khedive,  53 
rrhcbcs 

— at  daybreak,  178-179 

— at  moonrise,  217-219 

— at  night,  207-220 

— at  sunset,  193,  200-202 

— boundary  of,  263 


309 

Thebes,  buried  temples  at,  228-229 

— destruction  of,  by  Christians  and 
Moslem  iconoclasts,  197 

— earthquakes  at,  212 

— excavations  at,  227-229 

— extent  of,  231-232 

— history  of,  194-198 

— Hypostyle  Hall  at,  195,  207, 
213,  215-217,  223-224,  264 

— obelisks  at,  178,  213-214 

— men  of,  their  architectural 
achievement,  225 

their  ignorance  of  the  vault, 

225 

their  influence  on  posterity, 

195 

— suburb  of  embalmers  at,  238- 
239 

— want  of  clear  spwice  in  temples 
at,  225 

Thoth,  ibis-headed  god,  143 
Thothmes  III.,  hall  of  the  feasts 
of,  211-212,  216,  264 

— tomb  of,  244 

Tourist  boats,  160,  181,  285 

“Valley  of  the  Kings,”  at 
Thebes,  242,  243,  248 
Valley  of  the  Nile.  See  Nile 
Valley 

Vault,  undiscovered  by  Thebans,' 
225 

Villages,  Egyptian,  their  neutral 
colour,  124-125,  156-157 
Virgin  Mary,  and  the  Crypt  of 
Basilica  of  St  Sergius,  107 

Winter  Palace,  at  Luxor,  180, 
239 

Women  (Copts),  dress  of.  111 

— (fellaheen)  dress  of,  121,  122 

grace  of,  121,  122,  284 

strength  of,  123 

Zad6,  Chah,  19 
Zoser,  King,  tomb  of,  80 


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